■ 


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REMINISCENCES 


OF 


A    PORTRAIT    PAINTER 


GEORGE  P,  A.  HEALY. 


REMINISCENCES 


OF 


A    PORTRAIT    PAINTER 


BY 


GEORGE   P.  A.JHEALY 


CH ICAGO 

A    C.   McCLURG  AND   COMPANY 

1894 


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Copyright 
By  A.  C.  McClurg  and  Co. 

A.D.    1894 


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CONTENTS. 


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PART  I. 

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£5lg  Jrtenos  ant)  mg  Sitters. 

Page 

I.    Thomas  Couture        77 

II.    Crowns  and  Coronets 107 

v  .           III.    American  Statesmen 138 

IV.    French  Statesmen     . 167 


V.    Men  of  Letters 204 


339518 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


♦ 


George  P.  A.  Healy Frontispiece 

Abraham  Lincoln To  face  page    22 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  Newberry 
Library,  Chicago. 

General  Ulysses  S.  Grant 30 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  Newberry 
Library,  Chicago. 

General  William  Tecumseh  Sherman     ....      38 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  Newberry 
Library,  Chicago. 

Dubourjal,  the  Miniature  Painter 44 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  possession 
of  Mrs.  Healy. 

William  B.  Ogden 58 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  possession 
of  Charles  Butler,  Esq. ,  New  York. 

Mrs.  Thomas  B.  Bryan 64 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  possession  of 
Mr.  Bryan,  Elmhurst,  111. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bryan's  Little  Girl 68 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  possession 
of  Mr.  Bryan,  Elmhurst,   111. 


viii  List  of  Illustrations. 

Alexander  Baring,  Lord  Ashburton  Tofacepage    iii 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  State  Depart- 
ment, Washington,  D.  C. 

H.  R.  H.  The  Princess  Elizabeth,  since  Queen 

of  Roumania 128 

From  Mr.   Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  possession 
of  Ezra  B.  McCagg,  Esq.,  Chicago. 

Pius  IX.,  Pope  of  Rome 136 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  Convent  of 
the  Sacred  Heart,  Albany,  N.  Y. 

General  Andrew  Jackson 140 

From  Mr.   Healy's  original  painting,  now   in   the  Corcoran 
Gallery,  Washington,  D.  C. 

Henry  Clay 148 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  possession 
of  Thomas  B.  Bryan,  Esq.,  Elmhurst,  111. 

John  Quincy  Adams 152 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  Executive 
Mansion,  Washington,  D.  C. 

Daniel  Webster 164 

From  Mr.   Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  Newberry 
Library,  Chicago. 

FRANgois  Pierre  Guillaume  Guizot 174 

From  Mr.   Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the   Corcoran 
Gallery,  Washington,  D.  C 

Louis  Adolphe  Thiers 180 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  Newberry 
Library,  Chicago 

Leon  Gambetta 188 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  possession 
of  Hon.  William  D.  Washburne,  Minneapolis. 


List  of  Illustrations.  ix 

John  JameS  Audubon To  face  page    204 

From  Mr    Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  rooms  of 
the  Boston  Society  of  Natural  History 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  and  Daughter    218 

From  Mr.  Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  possession 
of  Miss  Longfellow,  Cambridge,  Mass. 

L'Abbe  Franz  Liszt 220 

From  Mr.   Healy's  original  painting,  now  in  the  possession 
of  Miss  Longfellow,  Cambridge,  Mass. 


part  i. 

A   SKETCH    OF    MY    LIFE. 


REMINISCENCES- 


OF    A 


PORTRAIT    PAINTER. 


PART  I. 

A   SKETCH   OF   MY   LIFE. 

TT  would  be  a  good  thing,  perhaps,  if 
every  man  who  had  lived  many  years, 
who  had  been  thrown  in  contact  with 
interesting  people,  and  had  seen  many 
phases  of  public  and  private  life,  would 
tell  his  story  as  simply  as  possible,  and 
especially  the  story  of  his  youth.  I 
certainly  do  not  believe  that  one  man's 
experience  can  ever  replace  the  per- 
sonal experience  of  other  men.  Each 
generation  is  a  little  suspicious  of  the 
generations  which  have  preceded  it,  and 


14      Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

is  determined  to  go  its  own  way  at  its 
own  risks  and  perils,  perchance  stum- 
bling at  times,  but  quite  convinced  that 
each  stumble  is  a  step  forward.  But  the 
story  of  a  life  made  up  of  struggles,  of 
hopes  and  fears,  of  defeats  and  victories, 
may  be  of  some  use  in  so  far  as  it 
teaches  a  lesson  of  hope  and  courage. 
I  shall,  for  my  part,  make  the  story  a 
short  one.  I  have  been  a  hard  worker  all 
my  life.  Outside  of  his  work  a  very 
busy  man  has  but  few  events  to  relate. 

My  grandfather  was  an  Irishman  who 
was  ruined  by  the  rebellion  of  1798. 
Being  poor,  naturally,  he  had  a  large 
family.  All  he  could  do  for  his  sons 
was  to  give  fifty  pounds  to  each  of 
them,  to  wish  them  well,  and  to  bid 
them  henceforth  provide  for  their  own 
wants.  My  father  went  to  London,  and 
was  lucky  enough  to  become  a  midship- 
man in  the  East  India  Company's  navy. 
When    his    captain    died,  he    went   over 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  15 

to  Boston,  and  was  appointed  captain 
of  a  merchant  vessel,  putting  into  the 
venture  all  his  small  earnings,  and  be- 
coming before  long  a  thorough  Ameri- 
can. He  was  a  bold-spirited,  imprudent 
man,  excellently  well  fitted  for  the  ad- 
venturous life  he  led.  During  the  war 
with  Tripoli,  finding  that  his  vessel 
was  on  the  point  of  being  captured  by 
a  corsair's  craft,  he  caused  all  his  men 
to  land,  remained  himself  till  the  last 
moment,  blew  up  the  ship,  and  barely 
escaped  with  his  life.  In  1812  he  com- 
manded another  merchant  vessel;  all  he 
possessed  was  invested  in  its  cargo.  An 
English  privateer  captured  the  ship,  and 
sent  its  captain  a  prisoner  to  the  island 
of  Antigua. 

Before  starting  on  this  ill-fated  jour- 
ney, my  father  had  fallen  in  love  with  a 
mere  child  of  fifteen,  Miss  Mary  Hicks. 
He  wrote  to  release  her,  but  she  refused 
to  break  her  engagement ;  and  when  he 


1 6     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

was  exchanged  soon  after,  he  returned 
to  Boston,  and  married  without  much 
thought  for  the  future.  My  father  was 
not  suited  for  a  landsman's  life ;  he  was  a 
sailor  and  nothing  but  a  sailor,  and  each  of 
his  subsequent  ventures  proved  disastrous. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  five  children,  and 
was  born  in  Boston,  July  15,   18 13. 

In  those  early  days  there  was  but  little 
encouragement  to  artistic  vocations,  and 
certainly,  as  a  small  urchin,  I  should 
have  been  much  surprised  had  any  one 
predicted  my  future  career.  However, 
one  of  my  early  remembrances  is  of 
having  caught  a  glimpse  of  our  great 
painter  Stuart.  He  had  painted  a  por- 
trait of  my  father  before  his  marriage, 
so  that  the  name  wras  familiar  to  me. 
One  day,  as  I  was  playing  at  marbles 
with  some  other  boys  of  my  age,  one 
of  them  exclaimed :  "  There  goes  old 
Stuart ! "  I  looked  up ;  but  all  I  saw  of 
"  old  Stuart "  was  his  back. 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  17 

My  grandmother,  Mrs.  Hicks,  painted 
quite  prettily  in  water-colors,  and  one  of 
my  delights  as  a  child  was  to  turn  over  a 
series  of  sketches  she  had  made  during  a 
journey  among  the  West  Indian  Islands. 
It  is  doubtless  from  her  that  I  inherited 
my  first  liking  for  painting.  Still,  noth- 
ing in  my  early  childhood  seemed  to 
indicate  that  I  was  to  become  an  artist. 
I  attended  the  public  school,  like  all  my 
companions,  and  my  one  idea  was  to  earn 
a  little  money  so  as  to  help"  my  mother. 
Life  was  not  easy  to  the  poor  woman, 
with  her  growing  family  and  her  scanty 
and  uncertain  means.  She  had  been  a 
very  pretty  girl,  of  the  frail,  delicate 
American  type ;  but  anxiety  soon  caused 
her  beauty  to  fade,  and  made  her  appear 
older  than  she  was. 

I  must  have  been  quite  a  small  child 
when  I  began  to  understand  the  state 
of  things  at  home,  and  to  trouble  my 
brains    as    to   the    best    means  of   being 


1 8     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter, 

mother's  right-hand  man.  American 
boys  are  ready  and  willing  to  do  any- 
thing in  order  to  turn  an  honest  penny, 
from  clearing  the  snow  off  rich  people's 
door-steps  to  sweeping  a  merchant's 
store  for  him,  —  at  least  they  were  in 
my  day,  and  thought  none  the  less  of 
themselves  for  their  hard  work.  One 
day  I  saw  a  gentleman  get  down  from 
his  horse,  and  then  look  about  him : 
"Shall  I  hold  your  horse  for  you,  sir?" 
said  I,  not  without  some  trepidation,  for, 
as  a  child,  and  even  as  a  young  man,  I 
was  terribly  timid.  "  Certainly,  my  boy  ; 
walk  him  up  and  down  gently."  I  can 
still  see  myself  holding  on  firmly  to  the 
reins,  and  pacing  up  and  down  the  street. 
Perhaps  the  gentleman  was  paying  a  visit 
to  his  sweetheart,  for  it  certainly  proved 
to  be  a  long  visit.  When  at  last  he 
came  out  of  the  house,  he  was  doubtless 
amused  by  my  eagerness  to  do  my  very 
best  in  my  important  duty,  for  he  gave 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  19 

me  a  whole  dollar.  I  do  not  know  if, 
in  my  life,  I  have  ever  been  much  hap- 
pier than  when  I  rushed  home  in  a  state 
of  wild  excitement  and  threw  the  dollar 
into  my  mother's  lap. 

With  her  frail  look  and  delicate  health, 
she.  must  have  been  a  very  energetic 
woman.  It  is  to  her  that  I  owe  not  hav- 
ing been  a  cripple  all  my  life.  WThen  I 
was  about  twelve  years  of  age,  I  caught 
cold  in  my  left  leg,  and  the  bone  exfoli- 
ated. The  muscles  were  so  contracted 
that  the  doctors  decided  that  amputation 
was  necessary.  One  day  my  mother  bade 
me  straighten  out  the  leg  as  much  as  I 
could,  then  suddenly  she  sat  upon  it, 
weigh  ins:  down  as  much  as  she  could. 
I  screamed  with  the  excruciating  pain,  and 
then  fainted.  But  I  did  not  lose  my 
leg,  and  I  have  never  even  been  lame 
since.  Later,  my  mother  said  that  the 
impulse  which  led  her  to  do  this  was 
so   strong  that   she   could    not  have   re- 


20     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

sisted  it ;  she  seemed  merely  an  instru 
ment  obeying  some  will  stronger  than 
her  own. 

The  first  time  that  I  held  a  brush 
was  when  I  was  about  sixteen  years 
of  age.  One  day  I  was  to  meet  a 
friend  of  mine  at  his  house,  and  we 
were  then  to  go  off  together  on  some 
excursion.  But  as  it  began  to  rain 
violently,  I  found  my  friend  and  his 
two  sisters  amusing  themselves  with  a 
paint-box.  They  made  drawings  which 
they  afterwards  colored.  One  of  the 
little  girls,  holding  up  her  work  where 
bright  reds,  greens,  and  blues  vied  with 
each  other,  exclaimed :  "  You  could  not 
do  as  much,  could  you,  George  ? "  "  I 
guess  I  could,"  said  I  in  true  Yankee 
fashion  ;  and,  nettled,  I  began  to  color 
one  of  the  childish  drawings  on  which 
the  little  girl  obligingly  wrote  directions 
as  to  the  tints  I  should  use.  When  I 
had    finished,   my   friends   declared    that 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  21 

I  must  have  painted  before.  But  I  had 
not.  I  had  shown  at  school  much  apti- 
tude for  map  drawing,  but  that  was  the 
first  time   I  had  ever  used  a  brush. 

After  that,  however,  I  would  do  noth- 
ing else.  I  determined  to  be  a  painter. 
In- those  days  there  were  neither  acade- 
mies nor  drawing-classes,  nor  collec- 
tions of  pictures  to  be  studied.  I  began 
by  copying  all  the  prints  I  could  find, 
by  making  likenesses  of  all  who  would 
consent  to  sit  to  me.  The  first  useful 
thing  I  did  was  to  paint  a  portrait  of 
our  butcher.  That  ought  to  have  soft- 
ened the  opposition  of  my  family,  as 
doubtless  much  of  the  beef  and  mutton 
he  had  provided  was  still  unpaid  for. 
But  parents  then,  if  not  now,  looked  with 
disfavor  on  artists,  poets,  and  other  such 
irregular  persons!  My  grandmother,  for- 
getful of  her  own  artistic  attempts,  would 
shake  her  head  as  she  looked  at  my 
daubs,  and  exclaim  :  "  My  poor  George ! 


22     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

you   will    never  be  an    artist ;    you   will 
never  make  salt  to  your  porridge ! " 

But  in  spite  of  all  I  persevered. 
When  once  my  artistic  vocation  was 
made  clear  to  me,  I  never  hesitated  a 
moment,   I   never  looked  back. 

My  first  small  success  came  to  me 
in  rather  an  odd  way.  Miss  Stuart,  who 
took  some  interest  in  me,  lent  me  a 
print  of  Guido  Reni's  "  Ecce  Homo." 
I  copied  this  on  a  canvas,  and  then 
colored  it  as  best  I  could,  without  any 
help  except  such  as  the  study  of  my 
own  face  afforded  for  the  flesh  tints. 
Such  as  it  was,  I  carried  the  picture 
to  a  good-natured  bookseller,  who  con- 
sented to  put  it  in  his  shop-window. 
I  own  that  I  often  found  an  excuse  for 
passing  along  that  street,  so  as  to  give 
a  rapid  glance  at  my  work.  In  later 
years  I  have  never  seen  an  artist  hover 
about  his  picture  at  a  public  exhibition 
without  thinking  of  my  "  Ecce  Homo " 
in  the  friendly  bookseller's  window. 


ABRAHAM  LIXCOLN. 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  23 

A  Catholic  priest  from  the  country 
happened  to  pass  that  way,  and  stopped 
to  look  at  the  picture.  Catholic  priests 
are  not  rich  now;  in  those  days  they 
were  terribly  poor.  After  hesitating,  he 
went  in  and  asked  whether  that  picture 
was  for  sale.  My  friend  the  bookseller 
must  have  had  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  as 
he  answered  that  doubtless  the  artist 
would  consent  to  part  with  his  work  — 
for  a  consideration.  "  I  am  not  rich," 
said  the  priest ;  "  all  I  could  scrape  to- 
gether would  be  ten  dollars."  "  I  will 
speak  to  the  artist,  and  give  you  an 
answer  to-morrow."  And  on  the  mor- 
row the  priest  carried  away  the  "  Ecce 
Homo,"  and  the  "  artist "  pocketed  the 
ten  dollars.  I  do  not  know  which  was 
the  happier  of  the  two ;  but  I  rather 
fancy  it  was  the  boy  painter! 

Some  thirty  years  later,  as  I  stood 
talking  with  some  friends  at  the  Capitol 
in  Washington,  I  saw  an  old  man  wrear- 


24     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

ing  a  Roman  collar.  On  hearing  my 
name  pronounced  by  one  of  my  friends 
he  came  up  to  me  and  said :  "  Are  you 
Mr.  Healy,  the  painter?"  I  bowed,  and 
he  continued  with  a  smile :  "  I  believe 
that  I  am  the  happy  possessor  of  one 
of  your  earliest  works,  if  not  the  earliest. 
Do  you  remember  an  'Ecce  Homo' 
which  you  had  placed  in  the  window 
of  a  Boston  bookseller?  A  country 
priest  offered  ten  dollars  for  it.  I  am 
that  priest,  and  your  picture  still  hangs 
in  my  little  church.  Who  knows?  it 
perhaps  brought  down  blessings  on  your 
head.  I  have  always  felt  that  I  had 
something  to  do  with  your  success  in 
life ! "  I  shook  my  first  patron  heartily 
by  the  hand,  and  told  him  what  joy  his 
ten  dollars  had  given  me.  But  some- 
how, in  the  confusion  of  the  moment, 
I  neglected  to  ask  him  for  his  name 
and  address.  I  have  always  regretted 
this.       I    should    greatly    have    liked    to 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  25 

pay  him  a  visit,  and  see  how  my  copy 
of  Guido  Reni  looked  in  the  Yankee 
country  church. 

The  first  serious  encouragement  which 
I  received  came  to  me  from  Sully,  who, 
when  I  was  about  eighteen,  was  called 
to  Boston  to  paint  a  portrait  of  Colonel 
Perkins  for  the  Athenaeum.  Miss  Jane 
Stuart,  daughter  of  the  great  painter, 
spoke  to  him  of  "little  Healy's"  attempts, 
and  he  sent  word  to  me  that  if  I  would 
make  a  sketch  from  Nature  and  a  copy 
of  one  of  Stuart's  heads  he  would  be 
glad  to  give  me  some  advice.  When 
I  showed  him  what  I  had  done,  he 
looked  at  the  canvases  and  exclaimed 
heartily:  "My  young  friend,  I  advise 
you  to  make  painting  your  profession!" 

Seven  years  later,  Sully  was  in  Lon- 
don, having  been  sent  there  by  the 
St.  Georges  Society  to  paint  a  portrait 
of  the  Queen.  I  was  also  there,  engaged 
on  a  portrait  of  the  celebrated  naturalist, 


26     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

Audubon.  I  showed  him  my  work  as  I 
had  shown  him  my  sketches,  and  after 
looking  a  long  time  in  silence  at  the 
portrait,  he  said,  with  the  courtly  polite- 
ness for  which  he  was  noted :  "  Mr. 
Healy,  you  have  no  reason  to  regret 
having  followed  the  advice  I  gave  you 
some  years  ago." 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  me,  after  something 
like  half  a  century  to  pay  my  debt  of 
gratitude  to  this  good  painter,  who  was 
also  so  kindly  a  man  and  so  thorough 
a  gentleman.  His  portraits  of  women 
were  peculiarly  sweet  and  delicate,  and 
in  his  day  he  was  very  popular.  But 
an  artist's  reputation  is  a  thing  of  fash- 
ion, of  caprice  also.  Sully  lived  to  be  an 
old  man;  younger  artists  with  different 
ideas  and  aspirations  had  sprung  up  by 
his  side;  little  by  little  the  popular 
painter  grew  to  be  less  admired;  his 
studio  was  nearly  deserted ;  he  was  not 
a    rich    man,    having    through    bad    in- 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  27 

vestments,  I  believe,  lost  a  part  of  his 
earnings.  Every  time  I  went  to  Phila- 
delphia I  never  failed  to  visit  my  old 
friend,  and  each  time  I  found  the  same 
courteous  and  gentle-mannered  man 
who  first  encouraged  me;  never  com- 
plaining, glad  that  I  had  succeeded  in 
life,  as  free  from  envy  as  though  his 
own  popularity  had  not  waned,  —  a  living 
proof  that  if  some  artists  in  the  struggle 
to  the  front  forget  at  times  not  only 
charity  but  even  simple  courtesy,  others 
remain  gentlemen  even  in  the  distress 
neglect  brings  with  it.  The  noble  and 
simple  old  man  preached  a  lesson,  by  his 
very  silence  and  dignity,  which  I  have 
endeavored  never  to  forget. 

In  the  autumn  of  1831,  encouraged  by 
Mr.  Sully,  I  ventured  to  hire  a  painting- 
room,  or  what  could  pass  for  such,  in 
the  house  of  the  late  Richard  Tucker, 
in  Federal  Street,  Boston.  I  was  then 
eighteen,  and  very  determined  to  make 


28     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

my  way  in  the  world.  I  was  the  happy 
possessor  of  an  easel,  paint-brushes,  and 
canvases,  and  I  nailed  outside  my  door 
a  board  with  my  name  and  profession 
printed  in  very  big  letters.  All  I  needed 
to  make  me  perfectly  happy  was  a  sitter. 
Unfortunately  the  big  sign  failed  to  at- 
tract one ;  and  though  I  painted  my  own 
portrait  with  a  student's  cap  jauntily 
perched  on  one  side  and  my  beardless 
face  treated  as  spiritedly  as  possible,  I 
was  not  much  richer  when  rent-day  came 
around  than  if  I  had  remained  idly  twirl- 
ing my  thumbs. 

Having  no  money  to  give  Mr.  Tucker, 
I  went  frankly  to  him  and  told  him  about 
my  trouble.  I  felt  sure  that  some  day  I 
should  have  sitters;  but  unluckily  that 
day  had  not  come.  Mr.  Tucker  smiled 
and  said  kindly  :  "  You  shall  at  least  have 
a  fair  chance  ;  paint  me  a  portrait  of  my 
son  Charles,  and  one  of  my  son-in-law 
John  H.  Gray.     Who  knows?    This  first 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  29 

commission  may  bring  others  in  its  wake. 
Till  then,  don't  let  the  rent  trouble  you  !  " 
I  do  not  know  whether  I  was  more  fortu- 
nate than  other  beginners,  but  I  seemed 
always,  when  things  were  turning  against 
me,  to  find  some  kind  hand  stretched  out 
to  -help  me.  These  two  portraits  are  the 
first  I  ever  exhibited,  and  they  attracted 
some  attention. 

At  this  same  exhibition  I  saw  a  very 
charming  portrait  of  a  lady  by  Sully, — 
it  was  that  of  his  wife;  and  from  that 
time  I  had  no  peace.  I  had  so  far 
painted  only  men ;  my  ambition  now  was 
to  paint  a  woman's  portrait,  a  beautiful 
woman's  portrait !  I  could  think,  dream 
of  nothing  else.  I  was  then  painting 
Lieutenant  Van  Brunt,  and  to  him  I 
opened  my  heart.  Ah !  if  I  could  but 
have  a  lady  sitter!  He  said:  "Go  and 
call  on  Mrs.  Harrison  Gray  Otis  ;  tell  her 
you  want  to  paint  her  portrait,  and  that  I 
sent  you." 


30     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

Mrs.  Otis  was  then  the  queen  of  fashion 
in  Boston  society.  Her  house  was  very 
popular,  her  entertainments  celebrated, 
her  sayings  quoted,  her  beauty  and  ele- 
gance acknowledged  by  some,  discussed 
by  others.  To  be  received  by  Mrs.  Har- 
rison Gray  Otis  was  a  sign  that  one  be- 
longed to  "  society,"  to  the  "  right  set ; " 
and  in  Boston,  then  as  now,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  belong  to  the  "  right  set." 

I  knew  all  this  somewhat  vaguely,  as  a 
mere  boy,  who  by  no  means  belonged  to 
the  famous  "  right  set."  I  was  distress- 
ingly timid.  When  I  affirm  that  I  am 
still  timid,  people  are  apt  to  laugh  at  me, 
and  it  is  certain  that  having:  been  thrown 
in  contact  with  many  different  "sets," 
still  more  exalted  than  the  Boston  "  upper 
ten"  of  1832,  I  have  conquered  much  of 
this  painful  timidity.  But  at  nineteen 
years  of  age  this  shyness  was  terribly 
real,  and  at  times  caused  me  almost 
physical  suffering. 


ULYSSES    S.   GRAXT. 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  31 

I  can  still  see  myself  going  up  the 
steps  of  Mrs.  Otis's  house.  I  held  the 
knocker  in  my  hand,  then  let  it  go,  and 
ran  for  my  life !  But  another  time  I 
screwed  up  my  courage  and  saw  the 
door  open  before  me.  I  managed  to  ask 
the  servant  for  Mrs.  Otis  ;  I  bade  him 
say  that  "  a  gentleman  wished  to  see  her 
on  business."  Then,  in  mortal  terror,  I 
awaited  her  entrance.  I  dared  not  look 
at  her,  but  with  a  sort  of  boldness  which 
is  sometimes  the  result  of  excessive  timid- 
ity, I  told  her  that  I  was  an  artist ;  that 
my  ambition  was  to  paint  a  beautiful 
woman,  and  that  I  begged  her  to  sit  to 
me. 

Perhaps  no  woman  is  offended  at  a 
youth's  blunt  homage.  Mrs.  Otis  was 
not ;  she  laughed  out  loud,  showing  her 
very  pretty  teeth.  Then,  growing  serious 
once  more,  she  asked  to  whom  she  was 
to  have  the  honor  of  sitting.  I  had  quite 
forgotten  to  introduce  myself,  and  to  men- 


32     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

tion  Lieutenant  Van  Brunt.  In  spite  of 
this  irregular  sort  of  beginning  to  our 
acquaintance,  Mrs.  Otis  was  probably 
amused  and  perhaps  interested,  for  she 
called  on  me  the  very  next  day,  and  ex- 
amined the  portraits  which  I  had  al- 
ready finished.  She  seemed  well  enough 
pleased,  but  I  dared  not  speak  again  of 
my  ambitious  hopes.  It  was  she  who, 
when  I  presented  myself  once  more  at 
her  house,  awkward  and  speechless  with 
terror,  said  with  a  smile,  "  Well,  Mr. 
Healy,  when  shall   I  sit  to  you  ? " 

This,  my  first  portrait  of  a  woman,  was 
a  very  audacious  one.  I  painted  Mrs. 
Otis  laughing, — a  thing  which,  had  I  had 
more  experience,  I  should  perhaps  not 
have  dared  to  do.  But  her  laugh  was 
charming,  and  she  was  fond  of  show- 
ing her  perfect  teeth  and  her  dimples. 
While  I  was  preparing  my  colors  she 
glanced  over  the  morning  papers,  and 
in  one  of  these  was  a  sharp  attack  against 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  33 

herself;  this  so  amused  her  that  she 
laughed  heartily,  and  I  was  so  struck  by 
her  charming  face  that  I  at  once  made 
up  my  mind  to  fix  that  laugh  of  hers 
on  mv  canvas. 

From  that  time  "  Little  Healy,"  as  peo- 
ple called  me,  became  known.  Mrs.  Otis 
proved  a  warm-hearted  friend  and  a  very 
powerful  one,  and  I  was  able  not  only  to 
pay  my  rent  to  my  patient  landlord  and 
my  other  expenses,  but  to  help  toward 
the  support  of  my  family. 

I  was,  however,  quite  aware  that,  in 
spite  of  great  natural  facility,  I  had  still 
everything  to  learn.  I  had  had  no  mas- 
ter ;  what  I  knew  I  had  acquired  by  dint 
of  hard  work,  with  the  occasional  advice 
of  some  older  artist,  but  with  no  serious 
training.  My  one  object  was  to  become 
a  student  in  a  regular  art  school.  But 
this  could  only  be  accomplished  after 
I  had  scraped  together  not  only  money 
enough  to  take  me  to  Europe  and  to  help 

3 


34     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

toward  my  support  there,  but  to  leave  a 
sufficient  sum  with  my  mother  to  support 
her  for  a  year  or  two,  until  I  should  be 
able  to  earn  something  on  the  other  side 
of  the  bio:  ocean.  At  last  I  was  able  to 
do  this. 

In  the  month  of  April,  1834,  I  secured 
my  passage  in  a  sailing-vessel  called  the 
"  Sully."  In  those  days  one  had  to  await 
a  favorable  wind  before  venturing  out  to 
sea.  While  I  was  thus  waiting  in  New 
York,  I  called  on  Professor  Morse,  to 
whom  I  had  a  letter  of  introduction. 
This  was  just  about  the  time  when  he 
was  beginning  to  work  out  his  discovery, 
the  electric  telegraph.  Mr.  Morse  had 
been  a  painter;  fortunately  for  the  world 
he  was  something  else  besides.  Doubt- 
less he  did  not  remember  his  career  as  a 
painter  with  pleasure,  for  he  said  to  me 
somewhat  bitterly, — 

"  So  you  want  to  be  an  artist  ?  You 
won't  make  your  salt,  —  you  won't  make 
your  salt !  " 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  35 

"  Then,  sir,"  answered  I,  "  I  must  take 
my  food  without  salt." 

This  was  the  same  prediction  as  my 
grandmother's.  But  I  preferred  to  think 
of  the  encouragement  I  had  received  from 
Mr.  Sully  and  others ;  and  on  the  whole 
they  were  in  the  right. 

A  violent  storm  drove  our  vessel  very 
rapidly  toward  France,  and  we  were 
within  two  hundred  miles  of  Havre  in 
eight  days  after  our  sailing;  but  it  re- 
quired twelve  more  to  accomplish  the 
rest  of  the  voyage. 

I  knew  no  one  in  France,  I  was 
utterly  ignorant  of  the  language,  I 
did  not  know  what  I  should  do  when 
once  there  ;  but  I  was  not  yet  one-and- 
twenty,  and  I  had  a  great  stock  of  cour- 
age, of  inexperience,  —  which  is  some- 
times a  great  help,  —  and  a  strong  desire 
to  do  my  very  best.  Thus  everything 
amused  and  delighted  me,  —  the  peasant- 
women    in    their    white    caps,   the   noisy 


36     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

market-places,  the  little  urchins  who  in 
the  streets  called  out  to  each  other  in 
French,  that  mysterious  tongue !  I  was 
soon  in   Paris,  looking  about  me. 

I  had  hoped  to  meet  Mrs.  Otis  there ; 
but  to  my  great  disappointment  she  had 
already  left  for  Switzerland.  Another 
disappointment  awaited  me.  Like  all 
Americans  of  that  day,  my  interest  was 
centred  in  the  Marquis  de  La  Fayette  ; 
to  me  he  seemed  to  personate  France : 
he  was  then  dying. 

I  at  once  entered  the  atelier  of  Baron 
Gros,  and  went  to  work  with  a  will,  doing 
my  best  to  understand  my  master  and 
my  comrades,  and  quickly  catching  up 
enough  French  to  make  my  way. 

Gros  was  then  a  very  fine-looking 
man  of  sixty-three.  His  career  had  been 
a  most  brilliant  one,  and  yet  he  was  far 
from  happy.  Highly  sensitive,  almost 
morbidly  so,  he  suffered  pangs  from 
things  that  a  stronger  man  would  have 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  37 

despised.  He  had  painted  in  the  early 
years  of  the  century  his  magnificent  pic- 
ture of  the  "  Plague  at  Jaffa,"  now  in  the 
Louvre.  He  was  recognized  as  one  of 
the  first  among  the  French  artists  of  his 
day.  When  the  Bourbons  once  more 
returned  to  power,  the  painter  of  Na- 
poleon's campaigns,  instead  of  being  out 
of  favor,  received  important  commissions 
and  the  title  of  baron.  When  I  entered 
his  atelier,  he  was  still  highly  respected ; 
but  he  was  a  saddened  and  almost  de- 
spairing man.  The  influence  of  his 
master  David  was  so  strong  upon  him 
that,  instead  of  following  his  own  inspira- 
tions and  painting  spirited  pictures  of 
contemporary  life,  he  endeavored  to  re- 
turn to  the  old  classical  compositions, 
freezingly  correct,  such  as  he  had  ad- 
mired in  his  youth.  In  this  attempt  he 
failed,  and  his  later  pictures  are  very 
inferior  to  those  of  his  prime.  Then  he 
was  a   retiring   man,  or  rather,  perhaps, 


38     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

he  cared  but  little  for  the  society  which 
others  courted,  was  rarely  seen  outside 
of  his  studio,  and  was  not  even  sociable, 
it  is  said,  in  his  own  family.  He  brooded 
over  the  criticisms  which,  as  time  went 
on,  became  more  and  more  violent ;  each 
pin-prick  seemed  to  pierce  the  already 
bleeding  heart.  The  new  school  with 
its  violence,  its  innovations,  its  extrava- 
gances, also  found  him  a  severe  and 
saddened  outsider ;  everything  seemed 
to  contribute  to  the  darkening  of  his 
latter  days.  One  of  the  art  critics  ex- 
claimed, "  Gros  est  un  homme  mort !  " 
And  Gros,  as  he  received  one  of  his  in- 
timate friends,  said  to  him  bitterly  :  "  Ah  ! 
you  have  come  to  see  the  dead  man  in 
his  tomb."  However,  when  the  news 
came  of  the  suicide  of  another  painter, 
Leopold  Robert,  he  was  heard  to  say ; 
"  An  artist  ought  never  to  kill  himself ; 
he  can  never  be  sure  of  having  done  all 
he  was  capable  of  doing." 


WILLIAM   TECUMSEH  SHERMAX. 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  39 

But  on  the  25th  of  June,  1835,  Gros 
went  to  Bas  Meudon,  a  little  outside  of 
Paris,  and  stretched  himself  on  the  sandy 
bed  of  the  Seine,  where  there  was  but  a 
depth  of  about  three  feet  of  water.  Such 
was  the  miserable  end  of  a  man  who 
had  had,  one  might  say,  more  than  his 
share  of  success  and  glory.  He  had  out- 
lived his  popularity,  and  his  heart  was 
broken. 

My  life  at  this  time  was  a  life  of  ex- 
treme sobriety  and  very  hard  work.  I 
was  full  of  respect  for  the  dollars  I  had 
brought  with  me,  and  my  noonday  meal 
often  consisted  of  a  small  loaf  with  fruit, 
or  cheese  when  there  was  no  fruit.  But 
I  had  good  health,  high  spirits,  and  im- 
mense pleasure  in  the  progress  I  felt  I 
was  making  day  by  day.  I  speak  else- 
where of  my  journey  to  Italy  in  1S34,  in 
company  of  chance  acquaintances  who 
became  in  time  the  best  of  friends,  Sir 
Arthur  and   Lady   Faulkner.     From    an 


40     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

artistic  point  of  view,  this  first  acquaint- 
ance with  the  marvels  of  the  Italian 
galleries  was  the  best  of  lessons. 

In  the  spring  of  1836  I  went  to  Lon- 
don for  the  first  time.  I  there  exhibited 
a  portrait  of  Mr.  Francis  Place,  a  great 
friend  of  Burdett  and  Bentham  ;  and  the 
portrait  was  liked.  Joseph  Hume,  the 
radical  Member  of  Parliament,  wrote  to 
me  that  if  he  could  hope  to  have  as  good 
a  portrait  of  himself  he  would  willingly 
sit  to  me. 

This  letter  followed  me  to  France.  I 
had  undertaken,  with  two  young  French 
artists,  a  walking  tour  through  France 
and  Switzerland.  This  is  one  of  my 
most  delightful  remembrances,  though  it 
was  rou^h  sort  of  travelling:.  We  often 
walked  twenty  or  thirty  miles  in  one  day, 
without  being  sure  of  finding  food  on  the 
way ;  in  out-of-the-way  places  we  were  glad 
at  night  to  be  allowed  to  throw  ourselves 
down  in  some  peasant's  barn,  with  straw 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  41 

by  way  of  beds,  and  to  find  a  bowl  of 
milk  and  some  black  bread  for  our  break- 
fast. But  we  were  free  to  go  where  we 
chose,  to  stop  as  long  as  we  liked  in 
picturesque  nooks  and  sketch  to  our 
heart's  content;  we  were  young  and 
strong,  and  very  merry. 

On  one  occasion  a  gentleman  stopped 
to  look  at  our  work,  and  began  to  talk 
with  us  in  the  friendly  way  which  is  now 
much  less  the  fashion  in  France  than  it 
used  to  be.  English  notions  have  in- 
vaded even  the  French  provinces,  and 
strangers,  until  they  are  "  presented  "  to 
each  other,  hesitate  to  compromise  their 
dignity  by  speaking.  When  I  was  a 
young  fellow,  this  was  by  no  means  the 
case,  and  this  conversation  with  an  utter 
stranger  seemed  to  us  not  only  pleasant 
but  perfectly  natural.  To  the  stranger 
it  was  evidently  agreeable,  for  he  said  to 
us  heartily :  "  I  like  artists  ;  I  have  rarely 
the  occasion  of  seeing  any  in  this  out-of- 


42     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

the-way  place.  Will  you  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  your  company  this  evening 
at  dinner  ? "  A  real  dinner,  in  a  real 
dining-room,  with  a  host  who  could  talk 
of  pictures  and  who  appreciated  artists  ! 
Such  a  piece  of  good  luck  was  not  to  be 
despised,  and  the  invitation  was  enthusi- 
astically accepted.  The  stranger  proved 
to  be  a  rich  man  who  lived  in  a  chateau, 
and  had  an  excellent  cook  as  well  as 
an  estimable  cellar.  I  doubt  whether  he 
ever  gave  a  better  dinner  or  a  gayer 
one. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  journey 
that  I  received  Mr.  Joseph  Hume's  let- 
ter, and  I  did  not  hesitate  a  moment  to 
retrace  my  steps.  This  was  the  begin- 
ning of  my  real  career  as  an  artist.  I 
describe  my  English  experiences  in  a 
separate  chapter. 

It  was  while  I  was  at  work  in  London 
that  I  first  met  my  wife.  I  had  become 
acquainted  with  a  Mrs.   Hanley,  who  one 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  43 

day  brought  her  young  sister,  Miss  Louisa 
Phipps,  to  my  studio.  I  met  the  ladies 
on  the  stairs  as  I  was  running  to  keep 
some  engagement.  I  gave  them  the  key 
of  the  room  and  excused  myself.  But 
this  glimpse  on  the  stairs  was  enough 
to  fix  my  future  destinies. 

A  miniature  painter  named  Dubourjal, 
my  dearest  and  best  friend,  had  accom- 
panied me  to  London.  He  asked  per- 
mission to  make  a  water-color  drawing 
of  this  young  girl.  I  still  have  the  por- 
trait. The  costume  of  the  day,  with  the 
high  comb,  the  soft  ringlets  on  either 
side  of  the  face,  the  old  dress,  low-necked 
and  with  big  puffed  sleeves,  —  all  this 
seemed  to  me,  and  seems  to  me  still, 
perfectly  charming.  I  followed  the  pro- 
gress of  the  work  with  great  interest, 
and  somehow  the  young  sitter  was  al- 
most as  often  in  my  painting-room  as 
in  my  friend's,  —  to  that  friend's  great 
annoyance. 


44     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

Twice  the  name  of  Dubourjal  has 
come  under  my  pen.  I  must  stop  a  mo- 
ment and  pay  a  just  tribute  to  that 
excellent  friend,  that  loyal  and  faithful 
comrade.  He  was  a  few  years  older 
than  I,  a  typical  Frenchman,  who  never 
could  get  beyond  a  few  broken  English 
phrases ;  gay  in  spite  of  a  rather  hard 
life ;  the  most  unselfish  and  generous 
of  men,  happy  at  the  success  of  others 
even  when  success  did  not  come  to  him. 
The  close  friendship  which  united  us 
continued  after  my  marriage.  Dubourjal 
was  almost  one  of  the  family,  knew  all 
about  our  struggles,  played  with  the 
children,  and  helped  us  out  of  more 
than  one  small  difficulty. 

Like  many  another  imprudent  young 
couple,  we  were  given  to  entertaining 
our  friends  without  exactly  knowing 
how  we  should  pay  for  the  modest 
feasts.  Our  stock  of  silverware  was  of 
the  smallest,  but  Dubourjal  possessed  a 


M.    DUBOURJAL. 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  45 

dozen  forks  and  spoons  which  he  mys- 
teriously brought  in  his  coat-pocket  on 
gala  nights.  On  one  occasion  he  sent 
us  two  bottles  of  particularly  good  wine. 
He  was  proud  of  his  knowledge  of  Bor- 
deaux and  Burgundy,  without  which  no 
dinner  in  France  is  complete.  When 
the  wine  was  served,  as  it  was  with 
great  ceremony,  each  one  of  us  held 
his  glass  up  to  the  light,  admired  the 
fine  red  color  of  the  wine,  tasted  it 
with  knowing  looks,  and  declared  it  to 
be  delicious !  A  few  days  later  the  two 
bottles,  still  corked,  were  found  in  a 
closet.  The  servant,  by  mistake,  had 
given  us  the  ordinary  table  wine.  But 
it  did  just  as  well. 

In  the  summer  of  1839  I  was  recalled 
to  France.  I  asked  Miss  Phipps  whether 
she  would  go  with  me,  as  my  wife.  We 
had  no  time  to  make  wedding  prepara- 
tions, and  we  were  both  too  poor  to 
think    of    anything    but   our    happiness; 


46     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

which  perhaps,  after  all,  was  not  a  bad 
way  of  beginning  life.  I  had  already  a 
good  connection,  and  was  sanguine  about 
the  future  ;  but  I  had  to  provide  for  all 
the  wants  of  my  family  in  America  be- 
fore thinking  of  my  own :  my  parents 
had  both  died  since  I  left  Boston,  and 
the  education  and  support  of  my  sister 
and  brothers  fell  upon  me  alone.  My 
marriage  was  therefore  doubtless  an  ex- 
traordinarily imprudent  one.  But  a 
folly  can  sometimes  prove  to  be  wisdom 
itself. 

We  were  married  one  morning  at 
the  St.  Pancras  Parish  Church,  Euston 
Road,  London,  assisted  by  three  or 
four  friends  only;  my  wife  wore  her 
travelling-dress,  for  we  started  for  Paris 
as  soon  as  the  ceremony  was  over.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  look  of  pity  which 
the  clergyman  cast  upon  the  bride.  I 
fear  he  did  not  consider  me  a  respon- 
sible   sort  of   person.     In    those   days   a 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  47 

mustache  was  worn  only  by  soldiers  or 
Frenchmen.  I,  therefore,  with  my  un- 
shaven lip  seemed  to  this  respectable 
English  clergyman  a  sort  of  Frenchman, 
which  evidently  was  no  recommendation  ; 
and  my  profession  was  not  likely  to  make 
him  less  severe  in  his  judgment.  His 
glance  said  so  plainly,  "  Poor  child ! ' 
that   I  felt  quite  nettled. 

1 

It  was  with  a  hundred  dollars  in  my 
pocket,  by  way  of  fortune,  that  I  took 
my  wife,  who  had  not  a  penny  of  her 
own,  to  Paris.  The  journey  was  a  hard 
one  in  those  days ;  for  after  crossing  the 
Channel,  we  got  into  a  jolting  diligence, 
where  one  had  barely  sitting  room.  And 
my  bride  was  a  sorry  traveller!  In  spite 
of  this  unpropitious  wedding-tour  we  be- 
gan life  with  perfect  faith  in  each  other 
and  confidence  in  the  future. 

When  I  see  young  people,  in  our 
practical  age,  hesitate  to  marry  because 
their  means  will  not  allow  them  to  have 


48     Reminiscences  of  a  Portmit  Painter. 

a  fine  house  and  every  comfort  from 
the  very  first,  I  cannot  help  thinking  of 
our  modest  beginning  in  the  Rue  de 
l'Ouest,  now  Rue  d'Assas,  near  the  Lux- 
embourg Gardens.  Attached  to  my  paint- 
ing-room there  was  a  small  bedroom,  and 
that  was  all  our  establishment.  The  con- 
cierge kept  the  place  clean,  and  we  went 
out  for  our  meals.  It  was  not  a  compli- 
cated way  of  living;  but  it  never  struck 
us  that  we  were  not  the  happiest  mortals 
under  the  sun. 

Then  our  life  was  full  of  contrasts.  I 
had  found  an  excellent  friend  in  our 
minister  to  Paris,  General  Cass,  who 
lived  as  a  rich  man  and  the  representa- 
tive of  the  United  States  should  live. 
As  soon  as  he  knew  that  I  was  married, 
we  were  both  invited  to  dinner.  The  ques- 
tion of  dress  —  a  very  serious  question  — 
arose.  My  wife  was  almost  as  inexpe- 
rienced as  myself  on  the  subject.  We 
went  together  to  the    Trots  quartiers  on 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  49 

the  Boulevard,  and  chose  white  satin,  to 
be  covered  with  white  crape ;  and  this 
toilette  proved  to  be  deliciously  fresh 
and  pretty !  The  bride  was  very  shy, 
all  the  more  so  because  a  tall  footman 
was  stationed  behind  her  chair  during 
the  dinner,  —  a  dreadful  ordeal  for  her,  — 
but  the  evening  proved  successful  in 
every  way.  However,  I  was  a  little 
offended  when  Miss  Isabelle  Cass  said 
to  me :  "  You  did  not  tell  us  that  you 
had  married  a  little  girl !  " 

This  contrast  of  the  white  satin  gown 
and  the  establishment  consisting  of  two 
rooms  was  a  little  symbolical  of  our  life 
for  many  years  thereafter.  I  was  thrown 
by  my  profession  in  contact  with  people 
of  high  rank  and  large  fortune ;  among 
those  who  became  our  friends,  many 
were  rich,  and  we,  in  spite  of  perhaps 
unusual  good  luck,  struggled  during  all 
our  youth  at  least,  with  our  rapidly 
increasing  family,  against  the  difficulties 

4 


50     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

of  life.  This  is,  I  think,  one  of  the  most 
trying  situations  for  people  whose  per- 
sonal wants  are  modest,  and  who  have 
but  one  fear,  —  that  of  living  beyond 
their  means. 

A  trifle  will  give  an  idea  of  our  early 
married  life.  We  had  moved  to  a  rather 
better  place  than  that  of  the  Rue  de 
l'Ouest,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river ; 
the  studio  was  larger,  more  fitted  to  re- 
ceive distinguished  sitters.  We  were  both 
tired  of  restaurant  food,  but  still  we  did 
not  yet  possess  a  kitchen  and  a  cook, — 
such  luxuries,  in  our  eyes,  belonged  to  very 
rich  people  indeed.  But  our  big  stove 
boasted  of  something  which  might  pass 
for  an  oven,  and  Mrs.  Healy  one  day 
made  up  her  mind  to  utilize  this  oven. 
She  bought  a  goose,  and  we  rejoiced  at 
the  thought  of  escaping  that  day  from 
the  monotonous  meal  in  an  ill-ventilated 
room,  overcrowded  with  famished  mor- 
tals. In  due  time  the  goose  was  shut 
up  in  the  oven. 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  5 1 

The  bell  rang,  and  a  gentleman  en- 
tered. He  was  an  important  personage, 
very  rich,  a  possible  sitter,  one  to  be 
well  received  by  a  struggling  young 
artist !  I  forgot  all  about  the  goose, 
and  showed  my  work  to  this  amateur, 
who  seemed  interested  in  it.  He  was  a 
prolix  talker,  and  liked  the  sound  of  his 
own  voice.  I  insidiously  encouraged  this 
weakness,  and  soon  we  were  launched  in 
an  interminable  discussion  on  art, — art  in 
general,  art  in  the  past,  art  in  America, 
art  everywhere.  Our  conversation  was* 
accompanied  soon  by  a  low  singing 
sound,  which  soon  became  a  sizzle,  then 
a  veritable  sputtering.  The  goose  had 
burst  in  upon  the  artistic  talk.  A  strong 
odor  pervaded  the  painting-room,  and  a 
glance  convinced  me  of  my  wife's  utter 
wretchedness.  But  a  well-primed  talker 
is  not  to  be  stopped  by  trifles.  Once 
or  twice  our  visitor  looked  up  a  little 
startled    by  the  sputtering,  and    seemed 


52     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

astonished  at  the  strong  odor ;  but  I 
suppose  he  concluded  that  the  kitchen 
was  inconveniently  near  at  hand,  and 
the  discussion  went  on.  When  at  last 
the  visitor  left,  we  both  rushed  to  the 
stove ;  the  singing  had  ceased,  the  goose 
was  little  more  than  a  cinder ! 

It  was  at  the  Salon  of  1840  that  I 
received  for  my  portrait  of  Mrs.  Cass  a 
third  medal,  —  the  first  public  recompense 
accorded  to  me.  I  say  elsewhere  how 
the  General,  then  our  Minister  to  France, 
obtained  for  me  sittings  from  the  King, 
and  how  Louis  Philippe  later  commis- 
sioned me  to  proceed  to  the  United 
States  to  copy  Stuart's  Washington, 
and  again  to  paint  portraits  of  our 
great  statesmen.  After  having  been 
attracted  to  England,  I  now  seemed 
fixed  in  France  by  the  royal  patronage, 
when  in  a  moment  the  Revolution  of 
1848  changed  all  my  worldly  prospects. 
I  had  made  frequent  trips  to  America; 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  53 

but  always  returned  to  France,  where  I 
executed  my  two  large  pictures,  "  Web- 
ster replying  to  Hayne,"  and  "  Franklin 
before  Louis  XVI.,"  which  latter  picture 
won  for  me  a  gold  medal  at  the  Univer- 
sal Exhibition  of  1855.  This  was  the 
highest  reward  which  had  in  those  days 
been  granted  to  an  American  artist,  and 
gave  me  the  right  to  send  works  to  the 
Salon  without  passing  before  the  jury; 
in  other  words,  I  became  Hors  coucours. 

I  shall  pass  rapidly  over  this  period 
of  my  life.  I  was  a  hard  worker,  and 
to  a  certain  extent  a  successful  one. 
All  my  days  were  spent  in  my  painting- 
room  ;  but  I  have  always  been  fond  of 
society,  and  not  infrequently  we  spent 
the  evenings  with  our  friends.  These 
were  nearly  all  Americans.  The  Ameri- 
can colony  in  those  days  was  smaller 
than  it  is  now,  and  less  cut  up  into 
various  "sets;"  the  parties,  the  dinners 
and    teas,    cordially    offered    were    most 


54     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

agreeable.  It  was  not  thought  necessary 
to  make  a  great  display  of  wealth  and 
fashion,  to  give  jewels  or  costly  trifles 
at  the  "cotillon,"  or  to  print  the  menu 
of  a  dinner  on  silver.  Perhaps  society 
was  none  the  less  pleasant  for  being 
more  simple. 

But,  even  then,  there  were  Americans 
whom  the  French  looked  upon  as  people 
of  fabulous  wealth,  sent  by  a  kind  Provi- 
dence for  the  sake  of  needy  noblemen 
in  search  of  rich  wives.  Among  these 
Colonel  Thorn  and  his  family  held  a  dis- 
tinguished position.  Their  house  in  town 
and  their  chateau  in  the  country  were 
thrown  open  with  grand  hospitality,  and 
the  "Colonel  Torn"  —  the  "th"  beino:  im- 
possible  to  pronounce  for  the  French  — 
was  popular  among  all  the  fashionables 
of  the  day.  His  table  was  highly  appre- 
ciated, his  horses  well  known ;  they  were 
especially  noted  for  their  long  flowing  tails. 
The  Colonel  said  to  me  with  a  twinkle 


A   Sketch  of  Diy  Life.  55 

in  his  eyes:  "They  don't  know  that  I 
treat  my  horses'  tails  as  women  do  their 
back  hair;  I  add  on  a  switch!"  The 
Colonel  was  a  remarkably  handsome 
man,  and  his  numerous  daughters  were 
nearly  all  beautiful.  But  the  youngest 
was  the  most  perfect  of  all  as  to  features. 
-  I  painted  a  portrait  of  this  youngest 
daughter,  Miss  Ida  Thorn,  then  a  very 
young  girl  of  about  sixteen  or  seventeen. 
I  was  also  then  painting  an  English 
young  lady,  Miss  Sneyde,  whose  beauty 
was  exciting  great  admiration  in  Paris. 
I  have  always  thought  that  these  two 
lovely  girls  represented  most  admirably 
the  beautv  of  their  two  countries.  Miss 
Sneyde,  some  years  older  than  Miss  Thorn, 
less  slight,  beautifully  formed,  was  a  mar- 
vel of  color.  Her  hair  was  of  that  red- 
dish gold  tint  that  our  belles  sometimes 
most  foolishly  try  to  acquire  artificially, 
and  it  waved  naturally;  the  eyes  were 
blue,  the  lips  very  red,  the  skin  almost 


56     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

dazzlingly  white.  My  American  sitter's 
hair  was  nearly  black,  her  eyes  dark ;  the 
features  were  clean-cut  and  exquisitely 
delicate,  the  figure  perfectly  graceful.  It 
would  have  been  difficult  to  decide  which 
was  the  more  beautiful  of  the  two ;  and 
the  painter,  glad  not  to  be  forced  to 
choose,  admired  each  more  than  the 
other,  according  to  the  sitter  he  was  at 
the  moment  painting. 

The  days  when  we  lived  in  two  rooms 
and  roasted  a  goose  in  the  studio,  were 
past.  I  managed  to  give  every  necessary 
comfort  to  my  growing  children,  but  the 
future  was  still  uncertain.  We  had  lost 
two  of  our  elder  children,  both  boys,  and 
this  was  our  only  great  sorrow;  but 
others  came  with  a  regularity  which 
filled  our  French  acquaintances  with 
amazement ;  and  with  every  child  our 
responsibilities  increased.  It  was  high 
time  to  think  of  ways  and  means. 

A  trifling  incident  changed  the  course 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  $J 

of  my  life.  Among  the  Americans  who 
visited  Paris  somewhat  before  the  Uni- 
versal Exhibition  of  1855  was  William 
B.  Ogden,  one  of  the  "  fathers "  of  the 
young  city  of  Chicago.  I  do  not  know 
if,  during  my  long  career,  I  have  ever 
met  a  man  of  greater  charm  of  manner. 
The  word  "  genial "  seemed  made  for 
him.  Remarkably  intelligent,  very  well 
informed,  a  delightful  talker,  full  of  en- 
ergy, of  will,  of  originality,  he  seemed 
destined  by  nature  to  be  a  leader.  He 
had,  from  the  first,  believed  in  the  mar- 
vellous future  of  the  small  town,  where  a 
few  years  before  there  had  stood  but  a 
fort.  His  descriptions  of  the  new  city 
fired  my  imagination.  I  had  often 
thought  of  returning  to  the  United 
States  and  settling  there ;  but  the  diffi- 
culty of  moving  with  a  large  family,  the 
uncertainty  as  to  where  I  should  go,  the 
fear  of  being  considered  by  my  country- 
people,  according  to  the  frank  saying  of 


58      Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

one  of  them,  as  a  "  blasted  foreigner,"  had 
made  me  hesitate.  Then,  too,  I  had 
been  engaged  on  large  works  more  easily 
accomplished  in  Paris  than  elsewhere. 
Now  my  second  large  picture  was  finished, 
ready  for  the  great  exhibition,  and  I  was 
free  to  shape  my  course  otherwise.  Mr. 
Oo:den  most  warmly  ur^ed  me  to  start 
for  Chicago,  offering  me  the  hospitality 
of  his  house,  promising  his  support,  and 
predicting  success.  I  quickly  made  up 
my  mind,  and  in  the  autumn  of  1855 
started  for  Chicago,  leaving  my  family 
in   Paris. 

Chicago  was  then  in  a  somewhat 
rough  stage.  Like  an  overgrown  youth 
whose  legs  and  arms  are  too  long  for 
his  clothes,  and  who  scarcely  knows  how 
to  dispose  of  his  lank,  awkward  body, 
the  city  stretched  along  the  lake  shore 
and  out  on  the  prairie,  unfinished,  rag- 
ged, and  somewhat  uncouth  as  yet.  The 
streets  were  abominably  paved  ;  the  side- 


WILLIAM   B.    OGDEN. 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  59 

walks,  raised  high  above  the  level  of  the 
streets,  were  composed  of  rough  planks, 
often  out  of  repair,  so  that  one  had  to 
pick  one's  way  carefully  for  fear  of  acci- 
dents ;  big  nails  seemed  placed  there  on 
purpose  to  catch  in  the  women's  dresses, 
and  as  in  those  days  the  hideous  fashion 
of  crinoline,  or  "  hoops ':  as  they  were 
called,  had  just  reached  the  Far  West, 
many  were  the  falls  occasioned  by  these 
nails.  The  mud  was  so  deep  in  bad 
weather,  that  from  side  to  side  rickety 
boards  served  as  unsafe  bridges,  and  the 
unfortunate  horses  waded  laboriously 
along  as  best  they  could.  Chicago  has 
changed  somewhat  since   1855! 

And  with  it  all,  Chicago  in  those  rough, 
far-away  days  was  delightful.  The  wooded 
North  side  especially,  where  resided  Mr. 
William  B.  Ogden  and  most  of  my  other 
kind  friends,  well  justified  the  name  of 
"  Garden  City  '  which  Chicago  bore. 
Land  had  not  then  risen  so  much  in  price 


60     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

as  to  make  a  big  space  about  each 
house  an  impossible  luxury ;  the  trees 
were  magnificent,  and  in  summer  almost 
hid  the  houses  one  from  the  other.  Mr. 
Ogden's  house,  kept  by  his  sister  and 
brother-in-law  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edwin 
Sheldon,  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  whole 
"  block,"  — ■  a  large,  roomy,  comfortable, 
old-fashioned  frame  house,  spreading 
broadly  in  the  midst  of  the  enormous 
garden,  or  "  yard,"  as  people  modestly 
called  their  gardens,  —  the  trees  were 
superb,  the  flower-beds  of  the  brightest 
hues,  the  lawn  stretched  before  the 
house  :  it  was  a  delightful  residence,  — 
a  town  house  with  the  pleasant  aspect 
of  a  country  place. 

And  this  may  be  taken  as  a  typical 
house  among  the  rich  citizens  of  that 
day.  Alas!  the  Fire  has  swept  over 
Chicago  of  the  olden  time ;  the  broad- 
spreading  homesteads,  the  fine  trees 
that  had  sheltered  the  games  of   Indian 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  61 

children    fifty   years    before,  —  all    these 
have    disappeared.      And    it    seems    to 
me    the    Fire    destroyed   more   than    the 
homesteads,  more   than  the   gardens:    it 
destroyed     the    simplicity,    the    cheerful 
kindliness,  of  a  town  still  too  young  to  be 
arrogant.     Chicago  is  now  a  superb  city, 
— -  the    "  representative    American    city," 
worthy  to  have  been  chosen  for  the  glo- 
rious World's  Fair.     But  somehow,  even 
in  the  midst  of  its  magnificence,  I  some- 
times regret  the  rough  town  where  I  was 
so  warmly  welcomed  toward  the  end  of 
1855.     It  is  true  that  the  most  enormous 
rats  I  ever  saw  held  their  noisy  meetings 
under  the    hi^h  wooden   sidewalks,  and 
uncouth    shanties     raised    their    shabby 
heads  close   to  fine   new  mansions ;    but 
then  hospitality  in  the  young  city  was  very 
charming,  and  its  home  circles  were  full 
of  kindly  feeling  and  of  high  culture  too. 
In  the  wild  race  toward  the  most  ex- 
traordinary fortune   ever  attained   in   so 


62     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

short  a  time,  even  in  our  country,  it  will 
not  be  a  matter  of  surprise  when  I  say 
that  land  agents,  merchants,  and  bankers 
were  more  plentiful  than  artists  in  Chi- 
cago. I  arrived  therefore  at  an  excellent 
moment:  prosperity  was  almost  univer- 
sal. The  following  year  a  terrible  money 
crisis  put  a  momentary  check  to  this  pros- 
perity, but  in  1 85 5-1 856  every  man  felt 
that  he  was  rich  or  would  soon  be  so.  I 
regret  not  having  kept  an  account  of  the 
portraits  I  painted  during  the  first  twelve 
months  of  my  sojourn  in  the  Garden  City. 
But  perhaps  it  is  just  as  well,  as  I  might 
be  taxed  with  exaggeration.  I  was  then 
in  the  full  strength  of  my  years,  capable 
of  much  fatigue,  not  dreaming  that  I 
should  later  have  to  pay  for  this  over- 
straining of  my  nerves  and  this  excess 
of  work. 

One  of  my  first  pictures  was  a  group 
of  Mr.  Sheldon  and  his  two  young  chil- 
dren, which  became  very  popular.     I  am 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  63 

glad  of  this  opportunity  of  speaking  not 
only  of  Mr.  Ogden,  whose  guest  I  was 
during  this  first  year,  but  also  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Sheldon,  who  took  me  into 
their  delightful  home  circle  as  one  of 
their  own,  and  whose  friends  became  my 
friends.  I  never  saw  a  more  charming 
example  of  hearty  American  hospitality 
and  kindliness. 

It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to 
speak  here  of  all  the  kind  friends  I  made 
at  this  happy  time.  The  old  settlers  wel- 
comed and  encouraged  me  :  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
McCagg;  Mr.  Kinzie,  of  whose  pretty 
and  lively  daughter  I  painted  a  large  por- 
trait; the  Rumsey  family  ;  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Brainard;  many  others  besides.  Life- 
long friendships  began  for  me  then  which 
neither  time  nor  long  absence  could 
undermine. 

Among  the  most  successful  portraits 
I  painted  at  this  time  I  can  mention  that 
of   Mrs.   Thomas    B.   Bryan,  whose    hos- 


64     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

pitable  house  was  always  open  to  me  and 
mine.  Mr.  Bryan  and  I  agreed  on  many 
points,  but  the  greatest  bond  of  sympa- 
thy perhaps  was  our  admiration  for  our 
respective  wives,  —  for  each  other's  wives 
too! 

Even  an  artist  —  and  every  one  knows 
how  unfit  such  a  man  is  for  business 
operations  —  could  not  resist  the  "  land 
fever"  then  raging  in  this  new  place. 
Fortunes  were  realized  by  clever  specu- 
lators in  a  fabulously  short  time ;  for- 
tunes also  were  lost,  but  of  those  one 
heard  less  than  of  the  first.  I  was  led 
to  invest  some  of  my  earnings  in  a 
stretch  of  sand  abutting  on  the  lake 
and  on  the  North  side  ;  a  deserted  and 
desolate-looking  place  it  was,  which  cost 
me  for  many  a  long  year  tax  money, 
and  brought  in  not  a  penny.  A  time 
came  when  the  investment  proved  to  be 
a  very  good  one ;  but  as  I  had  a  well- 
earned    reputation   for   bad  speculations, 


MRS.    THOMAS   B.   PR  VAX, 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  65 

that  sand  was  often  thrown  into  my 
eyes. 

The  sand  might  have  run  through  my 
fingers,  and  with  it  all  my  prospects  for 
peace  and  comfort  in  later  years,  but  for 
the  kindness  of  my  best  and  dearest 
friend,  Mr.  E.  B.  McCagg.  He  fought 
for  my  rights  when  my  claim  to  this 
property  was  contested,  he  cared  for  it 
and  worked  in  my  interest  as  he  would 
scarcely  have  done  in  his  own.  Of  all 
the  boons  Heaven  bestows  on  poor  hu- 
manity, few  are  more  precious  than  that 
of  a  perfect  friendship. 

I  confess  that  some  of  my  investments 
were  less  fortunate.  On  one  occasion, 
a  few  years  later,  one  of  my  supposedly 
dear  friends  assured  me  that  he  was  de- 
termined to  make  my  fortune,  as  artists 
were  quite  incapable  of  enriching  them- 
selves. I  was  convinced  of  this  humili- 
ating  fact,    and    duly    grateful     to    this 

generous-minded     benefactor.      I      gave 

S 


66     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

into  his  hands  a  goodly  bundle  of  bank- 
notes, and  he,  in  exchange,  gave  me  a 
title-deed.  On  my  return  to  Chicago  — 
this  brilliant  transaction  occurred  in 
Washington  —  I  bethought  me  of  my 
investment,  and  asked  to  have  it  regis- 
tered. The  clerk  who  was  to  attend  to 
the  affair,  and  who  knew  me  of  old,  said 
compassionately,  after  having  looked  into 
the  thing :  "  But,  Mr.  Healy,  it  will  cost 
you  something  to  have  this  registered,  — 
five  dollars  perhaps."  "  Well,  what  of 
that  ?  "  "  But  the  whole  thing  is  not 
worth  five  dollars."  "  What  ?  "  I  could 
not  believe  my  ears.  If  that  was  a  way 
of  making  my  fortune,  I  was  quite  as 
capable  of  improving  my  prospects  as  my 
Washington  friend.  The  clerk  explained 
to  me  that  the  land  sold  really  did  exist, 
but  it  was  under  the  waters  of  the  lake 
instead  of  being  on  its  banks. 

I   was   so  flattered,   so   delighted  with 
my  Chicago  reception  that  I  sent  for  my 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  67 

family;  and  in  November,  1856,  we  set- 
tled in  a  tall  frame  house  on  Ontario 
Street.  The  house  was  slisjhtlv  built, 
and  a  roaring  furnace  filled  Mrs.  Healy, 
unaccustomed  to  American  life,  with 
terror,  lest  the  wooden  house  should  burn 
like  a  match.  It  did  not  escape  its  fate, 
T}ut  it  was  after  we  left  it. 

As  I  have  already  said,  the  extraordi- 
nary prosperity  of  Chicago  soon  under- 
went a  sudden  and  violent  check,  and  I 
was  not  that  year  tempted  to  buy  more 
sand.  But  I  have  always  been  grateful 
to  have  been  led  to  fix  my  tent  for  a 
number  of  years  in  Chicago,  or  rather 
near  Chicago,  as  in  1857  we  moved  into 
the  country  for  the  sake  of  the  children's 
health.  We  were  still  settled  at  Cottage 
Hill,  now  Elmhurst,  —  the  elder  children 
at  school,  the  younger  ones  running  wild 
like  young  colts,  —  when  the  war  broke 
out. 

I  happened  to  be  in  Charleston  at  this 


68     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

time,  engaged  in  painting  a  number  of 
portraits,  and  I  assisted  in  the  wild  ex- 
citement which  ended  in  the  bombarding 
of  Fort  Sumter.  I  had  never  mixed  in 
politics,  but  I  was  a  Northern  man,  with 
Northern  feelings  and  antislavery  prin- 
ciples. Like  many  others,  I  hoped  that 
things  might  yet  be  peaceably  arranged; 
and  at  any  rate  I  was  busy,  and  never 
thought  of  leaving  my  work  on  account 
of  the  threatening  storm.  But  one  of  the 
Charleston  papers  informed  the  Yankee 
painter  "that  if  he  had  not  left  the  city 
before  the  sun  went  down,  he  should  be 
tarred  and  feathered."  My  host  read  the 
article  to  me,  and  I  burst  out  laughing ; 
the  thing  struck  me  as  merely  ludicrous. 
But  my  Southern  friend  by  no  means 
laughed,  but  said  :  "  A  carriage  shall  be 
at  the  door  in  an  hour,  and  you  must 
leave  town.  Otherwise  they  would  prove 
as  good  as  their  word." 

This  war-time  was  hard  upon  me ;  for 


MR.   &*   MRS.   BRYAAT'S  LITTLE    GIRL. 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  69 

when  bare  necessities  of  life  are  obtained 
with  difficulty,  such  luxuries  as  portraits 
are  not  to  be  thought  of.  This  was  espe- 
cially true  during  the  first  part  of  this 
terrible  war;  later,  if  some  were  ruined, 
others  made  rapid  fortunes,  and  specula- 
tion became  as  audacious  as  ever. 

Among  my  sitters  during  these  dread- 
ful years,  I  counted  many  of  our  most 
celebrated  generals,  —  Grant,  Sherman, 
McClellan,  Admiral  Porter,  and  many 
others.  I  also  had  sittings  from  Abra- 
ham Lincoln.  These  I  particularly  en- 
joyed. So  much  has  been  said  about 
that  great  and  good  man  that  it  seems 
almost  presumptuous  to  add  to  the 
numberless  anecdotes  of  his  humor  and 
genial  temper.  During  one  of  the  sit- 
tings, as  he  was  glancing  at  his  letters, 
he  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh,  and  ex- 
claimed: "  As  a  painter,  Mr.  Healy,  you 
shall  be  a  judge  between  this  unknown 
correspondent  and  me.     She    complains 


JO     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

of  my  ugliness.  It  is  allowed  to  be  ugly 
in  this  world,  but  not  as  ugly  as  I  am. 
She  wishes  me  to  put  on  false  whiskers, 
to  hide  my  horrible  lantern  jaws.  Will 
you  paint  me  with  false  whiskers  ?  No  ? 
I  thought  not.  I  tell  you  what  I  shall 
do :  give  permission  to  this  lover  of  the 
beautiful  to  set  up  a  barber's  shop  at  the 
White  House  ! '  And  he  laughed  again 
with  perfect  delight. 

At  the  close  of  the  war  the  idea  came 
to  me  to  paint  a  picture  to  be  called 
"  The  Peacemakers."  It  represented 
Lincoln,  Grant,  Sherman,  and  Porter, 
on  board  the  "  River  Queen,"  discussing 
the  possibilities  of  peace.  I  made  all  the 
studies  for  this  picture  in  America,  but 
I  painted  it  some  years  later  in  Rome. 
It  was  unfortunately  burned  in  1892, 
when  the  Calumet  Club  of  Chicago  was 
destroyed  by  fire. 

We  moved  back  to  town  in  1863,  and 
I    bought    an     old-fashioned     house     on 


A   Sketch  of  my  Life.  71 

Wabash  Avenue,  which  disappeared,  with 
all  it  contained,  in  the  Great  Fire  of  1871. 

Social  life,  in  spite  of  public  events, 
went  on  much  as  usual,  and  our  circle  of 
intimate  friends  was  still  that  in  which 
I  had  been  so  kindly  welcomed  on  my 
arrival. 

But  constant  hard  work  was  beginning 
to  tell  upon  my  health,  on  my  nervous 
system  especially.  It  was  evident  that 
as  long  as  I  remained  in  Chicago  I 
should  inevitably  do  more  than  my 
strength  would  permit.  To  refuse  a 
commission  was  more  than  I  could  ever 
do  !  Finally,  it  became  a  vital  question  : 
I  must  force  myself  to  rest,  or  the  ma- 
chine would  give  out  before  long.  It 
was  then  that  we  took,  not  without  much 
hesitation,  the  resolution  of  going  abroad 
once  more.  We  intended  to  stay  a  few 
years  only ;  we  did  not  return  to  Chicago 
until  1892.  It  is  true  that  my  previous 
visits  to  America  had  always  been  very 
frequent.  . 


72     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

My  strength  had  come  back,  thanks 
to  moderation  in  work  ;  the  grandchildren 
with  their  French  accent  were  growing 
up,  and  it  seemed  almost  impossible 
again  to  fold  up  our  tent.  But  the 
desire  to  live  among  my  own  people 
grew  within  me  as  the  years  went  on, 
and  I  am  pleased  to  find  myself  once 
more  in  the  American  city  I  love  best, 
which  adopted  me  as  its  own  in  1855, 
and  welcomed  me  home  so  heartily  in 
1892. 

As  I  look  back  upon  my  long  life,  as 
I  think  of  the  early  years  in  Paris  at  the 
time  when  Gros  killed  himself,  when 
Delacroix,  that  audacious  young  inno- 
vator, excited  the  anger  and  contempt 
of  Ingres,  when  the  landscapes  of  Corot 
were  refused  at  the  Salon,  when  my  old 
and  dear  friend  Couture  was  considered 
a  revolutionary  spirit  not  to  be  encour- 
aged by  the  authorities,  I  can  but  smile 
—  a   little   sadly,    perhaps  —  at   the  vio- 


A  Sketch  of  my  Life.  73 

lence  of  the  young  men  of  our  day,  who 
in  their  turn  will  be  looked  upon  as  old 
fogies  by  the  youths  of  thirty  or  forty 
years  hence.  And  so  the  world  goes 
on  !  Fashion  changes  ;  the  beautiful  of 
yesterday  is  the  grotesque  of  to-day. 
What  matters  it  ?  Each  generation  as 
it  comes  to  life  does  its  best,  struggles, 
suffers,  hopes,  or  despairs ;  it  adds  its 
little  stone  to  the  big  edifice  which  is 
ever  being  built;  the  little  stone  is  lost 
among  others,  forgotten,  overlooked  ;  but 
it  has  helped  nevertheless  to  make  the 
wall  solid  and  beautiful.  And  that 
surely  is  something. 


p>art  ii. 

MY   FRIENDS    AND    MY   SITTERS. 


THOMAS    COUTURE. 

1\  /T  Y  first  meeting  with  Couture,  who 
became  one  of  my  best  and  dear- 
est friends,  was  odd  and  characteristic. 
It  was  in  1834;  I  was  not  yet  one-and- 
twenty,  and  had  just  arrived  from  the 
United  States.  I  was  beginning  to  un- 
derstand a  few  words  of  French,  and 
had  entered  the  studio  of  the  great  and 
unfortunate  painter,  Gros.  If  I  under- 
stood but  few  of  the  things  the  master 
and  pupils  said  to  me,  I  understood  the 
language  of  the  pencil,  and  worked  all 
the  harder  that  I  was  more  estranged. 

One  day,  as  the  model  was  resting, 
and  I  was  looking  at  my  morning's 
work    in    a   somewhat    melancholy   state 


78     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

of  mind,  a  short,  thick-set  young  man, 
with  bright  brown  eyes  and  shaggy 
hair,  unceremoniously  pushed  me  aside, 
saying,  "  Donne-moi  ta  place,  petit."  I 
was  going  to  protest,  when  I  saw  my 
fellow-student  so  absorbed  that  I  grew 
interested  in  what  he  was  doing.  He 
coolly  turned  over  my  sheet  of  gray 
paper  and  sketched  the  model,  who, 
resting,  had  fallen  into  a  far  better 
attitude  than  that  which  we  had  copied. 
The  outline  drawing  was  so  strong,  so 
full  of  life,  so  easily  done,  that  I  never 
received  a  better  lesson.  When  he  had 
finished,  he  left  my  place  as  coolly  as  he 
had  taken  it,  seemingly  quite  unconscious 
of  my  existence. 

I  did  not  then  know  the  name  of 
this  free-and-easy  comrade,  but  I  kept 
the  drawing  and  prized  it.  I  am  sorry 
to  say  that  the  woman  intrusted  with 
the  care  of  my  room  had  but  small 
respect  for  the  fine  arts,  and  being  one 


Thomas  Couture.  79 

day  in  need  of  paper  to  light  my  fire, 
took  a  number  of  drawings  for  that 
purpose.  Among  those  drawings  was 
the  outline  sketch  by  Thomas  Couture. 

I  was  scarcely  able  to  profit  much 
by  my  illustrious  master's  directions. 
As  I  have  said  elsewhere,  Baron  Gros, 
unable  to  bear  the  loss  of  that  popu- 
larity which  had  so  long  been  his, 
ended  his  life  by  throwing  himself  into 
the  Seine. 

Gros's  pupils  dispersed,  and  I  had  no 
opportunity  to  make  further  acquaint- 
ance with  my  eccentric  fellow-student. 

Some  years  later,  when  the  estranged 
boy  that  I  was  in  1834  had  become  a 
young  man,  I  happened  to  pass  with  a 
comrade, — a  young  Englishman  named 
Toplis,  —  near  the  shop  of  Desforges,  who 
sold  canvases  and  paints,  and  who  also 
exhibited  pictures  in  his  window.  I  was 
greatly  struck  by  a  picture  representing 
a   young    Venetian,   and    endeavored    to 


80     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

excite  my  companion  to  enthusiasm. 
Toplis  was  hungry,  and  at  first  thought 
more  of  his  delayed  lunch  than  of  the 
painting.  But  he  soon  forgot  his  hun- 
ger, and  exclaimed :  "  By  Jove !  I  must 
get  my  brother  to  buy  that."  Lucky 
fellow!  I  had  a  certain  respect  for  a 
painter  whose  brother  was  rich  enough 
to  buy  pictures.  In  those  days  painters 
were  by  no  means  able  to  build  their 
own  grand  studios,  and  to  fill  them  with 
wonderful  draperies  and  precious  bric-a- 
brac  ;  as  a  usual  thing,  they  belonged 
to  modest  families,  who  mourned  over 
the  son  and  brother  who  had  embraced 
such  a  profession. 

Mr.  Toplis  bought  the  picture  signed 
"  Thomas  Couture,"  and  paid  the  color- 
dealer  a  thousand  francs  for  it.  I  after- 
ward found  out  that  the  artist  received 
only  three  hundred  francs.  As  it  hap- 
pened, it  was  I  who  was  commissioned  to 
go  to  his  studio.     As  soon  as  I  entered 


Thomas  Couture.  81 

I  saw  that  Couture  was  no  other  than 
the  fellow-student  who  had  so  uncere- 
moniously taken  my  place.  I  was  so 
delighted  at  the  coincidence  that  Cou- 
ture, who  naturally  did  not  recognize 
me  at  all,  thought  me  a  little  crazy.  I 
exclaimed,  "  I  am  so  glad  that  it  is  you !" 
-  I  must  now  confess  a  little  weakness  of 
mine.  When  I  am  excited  and  pleased 
by  any  unexpected  event,  I  rather  enjoy 
the  bewilderment  of  those  who  are  not 
in  the  secret.  After  all,  each  must  find 
his  pleasure  where  he  can !  But  after  a 
while  Couture  understood  that  I  was 
not  the  rich  amateur  who  had  bought 
his  picture,  but  only  a  poor  devil  of  a 
painter  like  himself,  and  that  we  both 
had  been  pupils  of  Gros.  Our  friend- 
ship dated  from  that  moment. 

There  was  in  Couture's  talent  such 
vigor,  such  frankness,  so  much  of  life 
and    truth,   that   my   admiration    for   the 

artist    equalled    my  liking   for  the  man. 

6 


82     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

He  was  apart  among  the  painters  of 
the  day ;  as  far  removed  from  the  cold 
academic  school  as  from  the  new  art, 
just  then  making  its  way,  with  Delacroix 
at  its  head.  The  famous  quarrel  be- 
tween the  classic  and  the  romantic  camps 
left  him  indifferent.  He  was,  even  then, 
of  too  independent  a  nature  to  follow  any 
chief,  however  great.  He  was  —  himself. 
His  great  aim  was  to  approach  Nature 
as  near  as  possible,  to  give  life  and  pas- 
sion to  his  painted  figures ;  and  in  that 
he  succeeded  wonderfully. 

On  that  first  visit  of  mine  to  his  bare 
studio,  —  a  very  different-looking  place 
from  the  lovely  boudoir-like  studios 
of  fashionable  painters  nowadays,  —  I 
saw  him  at  work  on  a  picture  only  just 
sketched  in.  He  exclaimed:  "The  ama- 
teur who  will  buy  that  canvas  for  a  thou- 
sand francs  will  have  his  money's  worth. 
Don't  you  think  so  ? "  A  thousand 
francs!       The    picture    was    large,    and 


Thomas  Couture.  83 

represented  the  prodigal  son,  a  life-size 
figure.  The  young  man,  seated  by  the 
wayside,  a  goatskin  about  his  loins  his 
only  garment,  thin,  his  deep-sunken  eyes 
full  of  despair,  his  brow  overshadowed 
by  a  thick  shock  of  black  hair,  seems 
to  ruminate  over  his  past  follies  and 
their  consequences.  In  the  background 
pass  a  man  and  a  woman :  the  young 
woman  is  full  of  compassion,  while  her 
companion  points  to  the  prodigal  and 
seems  to  tell  his  story.  The  contrast 
between  the  prodigal  son  and  these 
lovers  is  very  happily  indicated ;  and 
the  rich  tones  of  the  man's  red  drapery 
relieve  the  sombreness  of  the  rest  of  the 
picture.  While  examining  the  sketch  I 
said  to  my  new  friend :  "  My  sitters  pay 
me  a  thousand  francs  for  a  portrait.  If 
you  will  allow  me  to  pay  you  by  instal- 
ments, I  will  be  that  amateur,  and  I 
offer  you  not  a  thousand  francs,  but 
fifteen  hundred." 


84     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

I  was  very  proud  of  my  purchase, 
but  a  little  troubled  too.  In  those  days 
my  sitters  were  not  very  numerous,  and 
I  borrowed  of  Mr.  Toplis,  the  brother 
of  my  fellow-student,  the  first  sum  paid 
to  Couture.  But  I  never  regretted  this 
youthful  folly  of  mine.  "  The  Prodigal 
Son "  remained  in  my  studio  for  many 
years,  and  I  took  it  with  me  to  America. 
Finally,  I  gave  it,  with  many  other  pic- 
tures, to  the  city  of  Chicago.  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  the  whole  collection 
was  destroyed  in  the  Great  Fire  of  1871. 
A  small  sketch  of  "  The  Prodigal  Son," 
and  a  most  spirited  one,  still  exists ;  it 
belongs  to  M.  Barbedienne,  the  famous 
bronze-dealer,  who  was  a  personal  friend 
of  Couture,  and  possesses  a  number  of 
pictures,  drawings,  and  sketches  by  the 
master.1 

Thomas  Couture  was  of  humble  origin, 

1  Since  this  sketch  was  written,  M.  Barbedienne  has 
died,  and  his  collection  belongs  to  his  heirs. 


Thomas  Couture.  85 

and  had  to  fight  his  way  in  life ;  he 
fought  it  bravely  and  successfully.  He 
was  born  in  Senlis,  not  far  from  Paris, 
on  the  21st  of  December,  181 5.  Sturdy, 
thick-set,  short,  with  a  big  voice  and 
somewhat  rough  manners,  he  was  by 
no  means  what  is  called  a  "lady's  man." 
He  never  frequented  society,  and  had  a 
profound  contempt  for  those  who  did. 
He  was  a  great  worker,  —  in  his  youth 
especially,  for  later  he  grew  much  fonder 
of  his  ease.  He  cared  only  for  the  life 
of  the  studio  and  for  artists'  jokes,  and, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  practical  jokes  were 
his  particular  delight. 

If  he  had  not  been  a  painter,  he  might 
have  been  a  most  inimitable  comic  actor. 
When  he  told  a  story,  —  and  he  told 
funny  stories  by  the  dozen,  —  he  would 
act  it ;  his  face  would  turn  and  twist, 
his  eyes  would  dance,  his  nose,  with  its 
peculiar  nostrils  opening  upward,  would 
sniff,   and   he   managed   so  admirably   to 


86     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

render  the  tone  of  voice  and  the  gestures 
of  those  he  imitated  that  he  actually 
looked  like  them.  I  remember  that, 
many  years  later,  happening  to  speak 
of  a  very  fussy  old  lady  with  whom  we 
were  both  acquainted,  and  whom  he 
had  known  when  she  was  young,  he 
so  caught  the  twist  of  her  head,  the 
pleading  of  her  eyes,  the  flattery  of  her 
society  phrases,  that  I  saw  her  before 
me,  and  not  only  as  she  was  then,  but 
as  she  must  have  been  twenty  or  thirty 
years  before. 

Couture  was  a  stanch  and  faithful 
friend.  We  were  often  separated,  as  I 
continually  went  to  America  or  to  Eng- 
land;  but  when  I  returned  to  Paris  I 
was  sure  to  find  my  old  comrade  such 
as  he  had  been  when  we  parted.  When 
I  married,  and  presented  him  to  my 
young  wife,  the  impression  was  not  so 
favorable  as  I  should  have  liked.  His 
big,   loud    voice,   his  free-and-easy  man- 


Thomas  Couture.  87 

ners,  and  especially  his  practical  jokes, 
which  he  did  not  always  reserve  for 
the  painting-room,  greatly  disturbed  the 
shy  young  Englishwoman.  At  one  time 
he  never  came  to  dine  with  us  without 
bringing  in  his  pocket  a  tame  lizard, 
which  would  run  up  his  back  and  nestle 
against  his  neck,  or  would  play  the  same 
trick  with  unsuspecting  strangers.  He 
did  his  best  to  inspire  a  disgust  for 
oysters  by  showing  the  creatures  to  be 
living  at  the  moment  when  they  were 
swallowed.  Many  other  such  trifles 
were  set  down  against  him  at  first ; 
but  with  time,  and  especially  after  his 
own  marriage,  these  eccentricities  were 
softened  down,  and  his  real  sterling 
qualities — the  good  heart,  the  faithful- 
ness, the  sturdy  courage,  and  the  manly 
energy  —  grew  to  be  more  thoroughly 
appreciated. 

These  strong  qualities  did  not  go  with- 
out  a    certain     rough     independence    of 


88     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

character  which  did  not  help  him  to  suc- 
cess and  official  dignities.  He  divided 
the  world  into  two  distinct  classes :  art- 
ists, —  that  is,  those  whom  God  created 
to  be  the  masters  of  the  world,  —  and  the 
others,  whom  he  called  with  infinite  con- 
tempt "  les  bourgeois."  The  greatest 
statesmen,  kings,  noblemen,  or  shop- 
keepers were  all  "  bourgeois,"  —  that  is, 
inferior  beings,  who  should  consider  it  an 
honor  to  buy  pictures  or  statues  at  the 
highest  possible  rates.  As  to  allowing 
them  the  right  of  directing  in  any  way 
the  artist  they  employed,  that  was  not 
to  be  thought  of.  Their  first  duty  was 
to  be  eternally  satisfied,  grateful,  and 
enthusiastic. 

At  the  time  that  Guizot  published  his 
work  on  Washington,  I  was  commis- 
sioned by  a  group  of  Americans  to  paint 
a  portrait  of  the  great  statesman.  The 
sittings  were  most  agreeable,  and  conver- 
sation between  the  painter  and  the  sitter 


Thomas  Couture.  89 

never  flagged.  I  happened  to  mention 
Couture,  and  I  spoke  so  warmly  of  my 
fellow-student  that  Guizot  expressed  a 
wish  to  see  him.  The  picture  of  "  The 
Prodigal  Son,"  which  he  had  admired 
during  his  sittings,  proved  to  him  that 
my  enthusiasm  was  not  inspired  merely 
by  friendship.  We  therefore  went  to- 
gether to  Couture's  studio.  He  had 
utilized  one  of  his  bare  walls  to  sketch 
in  the  picture  which  was  to  become  so 
celebrated  under  the  title  of  "  The  Ro- 
mans of  the  Decadence."  Even  in  that 
rough  state  it  was  easy  to  see  what  a 
strong  work  it  was,  and  the  visitor  was 
very  much  struck  by  it.  Guizot  was  then 
all-powerful,  and  most  painters  would 
have  shown  themselves  more  flattered 
by  this  visit  than  did  Couture  ;  he  con- 
sidered it  but  his  due.  When  the  states- 
man asked  him  whether  he  had  no 
order  for  this  picture,  he  answered, 
"J  attends."     The    orders    should    come 


90     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

to  him ;  he  would  never  run  after 
them.  Guizot  smiled,  but  continued 
most  graciously,- — 

"  Who  was  your  master  ?  " 

"  Delaroche." 

After  the  death  of  Gros,  Couture  had 
entered  Delaroche's  atelier,  but  remained 
only  a  short  time  under  a  master  whom 
he  did  not  admire. 

"  M.  Delaroche  is  a  friend  of  mine," 
answered  Guizot ;  "  I  shall  have  great 
pleasure  in  speaking  of  you  to  him." 

And  he  evidently  did  speak  to  Dela- 
roche of  his  pupil,  for  a  short  time  after 
this  visit  Couture  happened  to  meet  his 
old  master,  the  most  successful  artist  of 
the  day,  the  favorite  painter  of  Louis 
Philippe  and  of  all  his  family.  Delaroche 
went  up  to  him  and  said,  — 

"  M.  Guizot  seems  to  have  been  struck 
by  your  work  ;  he  told  me  so.  I  replied 
that  you  had  been  my  favorite  pupil,  you 
had  natural  talent,  but  you  have  strayed 


Thomas  Couture.  91 

from  the  true  path,  and  I  cannot  recom- 
mend you." 

Probably  the  favorite  court-painter  in- 
fluenced his  royal  patrons,  for  when  the 
"  Decadence  "  was  exhibited  at  the  Louvre 
—  in  those  days  the  "  Salon  "  took  place 
in  the  long  gallery,  the  modern  canvases 
-hiding  the  works  of  the  old  masters —  the 
King,  Louis  Philippe,  when  he  visited  the 
exhibition,  managed  to  turn  his  back  on 
Couture's  picture,  both  in  coming  and 
in  going.  The  painter's  contempt  for 
"  bourgeois  "  taste  by  no  means  kept  him 
from  feeling  this  royal  behavior  most 
keenly.  However,  the  picture  had  such 
great  success,  was  so  generally  praised, 
suddenly  causing  its  author  to  become 
famous  in  a  day,  that  the  State  bought 
it  for  the  very  large  sum  of  six  thousand 
francs  !  This  sudden  reputation  of  his 
ex-pupil  probably  caused  Delaroche  to 
modify  his  judgment.  At  any  rate,  he 
called  on  Couture  some  time  after  the 
purchase  of  his  picture,  and  said, — 


92     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

"  M.  Couture,  I  have  greatly  disap- 
proved, I  still  disapprove,  of  your  con- 
ception of  art,  but  I  do  not  deny  that  you 
have  talent.  You  have  made  for  yourself 
a  place  in  art ;  let  us  be  friends." 

But  Couture  was  not  a  man  to  be 
taken  by  a  few  pleasant  words ;  he  drew 
back  and  answered, — 

"  M.  Delaroche,  you  have  had  im- 
mense success,  you  are  a  member  of 
the  Institute,  you  have  innumerable  ad- 
mirers. I  never  was,  I  never  can  be, 
among  those  admirers.  Therefore  there 
can  be  no  question  of  friendship  between 
us  two." 

And,  bowing,  he  left  the  great  man 
somewhat  astonished  at  this  manner  of 
responding  to  his  advances. 

Couture  was  a  good  painter,  but  a  very 
bad  courtier ;  he  proved  it  every  time  he 
was  placed  in  contact  with  the  great  ones 
of  this  world,  whether  sovereigns  or  mem- 
bers of  the    Institute   of   France.     That 


Thomas  Couture.  93 

was  not  the  way  to  make  his  talent 
popular.  The  rough  independence  of 
his  nature  could  admit  of  no  sort  of 
compromise.  He  had  several  opportuni- 
ties of  making  his  way  to  honors  and 
to  fortune,  —  opportunities  which  another 
might  have  utilized,  but  which  he  wasted. 
Doubtless  he  made  good  resolutions;  but 
when  the  time  came  he  was  unable  to 
control  his  impatience  and  his  sharp 
retorts. 

If  Louis  Philippe  did  not  appreciate 
the  painter  of  the  "  Decadence,"  his  repu- 
tation was  so  well  established  when  Na- 
poleon III.  took  possession  of  the  throne 
that  it  was  impossible  to  treat  him  slight- 
ingly, though  Couture's  talent  was  not 
such  as  courts,  as  a  usual  thing,  care  to 
encourage.  The  favorite  painter  of  the 
Third  Empire  was  Winterhalter,  as  Dela- 
roche  had  been  of  the  Orleans  family. 
However,  an  order  was  given  to  Couture 
for  a  large  picture  representing  the  bap- 


94     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

tism  of  the  little  Prince  Imperial.  He 
went  to  work  with  great  ardor,  making 
sketches  and  preparing  a  vast  composi- 
tion. In  the  course  of  the  work,  sit- 
tings from  the  various  members  of  the 
imperial  family  and  their  immediate  fol- 
lowers were  granted  to  him.  If  a  por- 
trait-painter, when  his  sitters  are  ordinary 
mortals,  is  often  driven  to  the  verge  of 
insanity,  it  is  easy  to  judge  how  his 
temper  is  tried  and  his  nerves  unstrung 
when  those  sitters  are  princes  or  sover- 
eigns. It  is  likely  that  in  Couture's  case 
the  sittings  were  not  agreeable  either  to 
the  painter  or  to  his  models.  Napoleon 
III.  wished  to  direct  his  artist,  and  of  all 
artists  Couture  was  the  least  easy  to 
direct.  Finally,  one  day,  goaded  beyond 
endurance,  the  painter  turned  around  and 
said  :  "  Sire,  who  is  to  paint  this  picture, 
—  your  Majesty  or  I  ? "  And  neither 
painted  it !  The  Emperor  gave  no  more 
sittings,  turned  his  back  on  the  painter, 


Thomas  Couture.  95 

and  his  courtiers  turned  theirs  also.  The 
order  was  not  maintained,  and  all  the 
work  of  many  months  was  wasted. 

Couture  never  recovered  from  this  bit- 
ter disappointment.  He  shook  the  dust 
from  his, feet,  and  returned  contempt  for 
contempt.  From  that  day  on  he  never 
sent  any  work  to  the  annual  Salon,  and, 
little  by  little,  so  retired  from  the  world 
that  many  thought  him  dead.  For  many 
of  his  contemporaries  he  remained  the 
painter  of  the  "  Decadence,"  as  though 
he  had  painted  only  that  one  picture. 
How  many  times  have  I  not  heard  young 
painters  exclaim  :  "  Couture  —  ah,  yes, 
Couture  of  the  Romans.  But  he  died 
ages  ago,  or,  if  he  still  vegetates  some- 
where, he  must  be  very  old  indeed.  No 
one  has  heard  of  him  for  many  a  long 
year  ! "  In  reality,  when  Couture  died, 
in  March,  1879,  he  was  not  sixty-four 
years  of  age. 

The  truth  is  that  Couture  never  ceased 


g6     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

working,  though  he  worked  after  a  some- 
what irregular  fashion,  giving  himself 
numerous  holidays.  If  he  was  neglected 
by  the  great  mass  of  his  countrymen,  he 
was  appreciated  elsewhere.  One  of  his 
most  charming  works,  "  The  Falconer," 
of  which  I  made  a  copy  the  size  of  the 
original,  is  in  Germany.  But  most  of 
his  pictures  were  bought,  I  am  glad  to 
say,  by  Americans.  It  is  rather  odd  that 
the  "  nation  of  shopkeepers,"  as  ours  is 
often  termed,  should  have  a  love  of  art 
and  the  instinct  of  the  real  amateur  more 
fully  developed  than  many  an  Old  World 
country.  When  Millet  was  still,  if  not 
unknown,  at  least  violently  criticised  in 
France,  America  already  possessed  some 
of  his  best  works  ;  Barye  found  his  most 
fervent  admirers  in  the  United  States; 
Couture  painted  almost  exclusively  for 
Americans. 

Couture  married  rather  late  in  life,  and 
had    two  children,   both   girls.     He  was 


TJiomas  Couture.  97 

adored  by  his  wife  and  daughters,  and 
his  married  life  was  a  very  happy  one. 
Perhaps,  with  our  ideas  on  such  matters, 
we  might  consider  that  his  theory  of  the 
superiority  of  the  male  creature,  and  his 
right  to,  absolute  devotion  on  the  part 
of  his  womenfolk,  was  a  reprehensible 
theory.  But  he  made  an  excellent  father 
and  husband  in  spite  of  his  conviction 
that  a  man  was  not  made  to  be  faithful  to 
one  woman,  and  that  education  for  girls 
was  a  dangerous  modern  notion,  not  to 
be  encouraged  by  a  reasonable  man. 

In  1869  he  purchased  a  country  place 
at  Villiers-le-bel,  a  short  distance  from 
Paris.  The  house  dated  from  the  time 
of  Francis  I.,  and  the  garden,  or  rather 
park,  was  filled  with  grand  old  trees. 
Here  he  resided  during  the  last  ten  years 
of  his  life,  going  to  Paris  only  during 
a  few  months  in  winter.  His  peculiar 
ideas  of  happiness  caused  him  to  live 
in    what    other    mortals    might    consider 


98     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

great  discomfort.  Under  pretext  that 
Nature  managed  things  for  the  best,  he 
never  allowed  a  gardener  to  work  on  his 
grounds.  He  was,  besides,  quite  con- 
vinced that  such  hirelings  made  it  a 
point  to  sell  his  vegetables  and  to  steal 
his  fruit.  As  a  natural  consequence  the 
beautiful  place  went  to  ruin  ;  the  trees 
brought  forth  no  fruit,  and  the  earth 
yielded  no  vegetables.  He  himself  took 
great  delight  in  wearing  peasant's  gar- 
ments and  in  walking  in  sabots,  —  they  at 
least  had  nothing  to  do  with  civilization  ! 
But  as  he  had  a  thorough  appreciation  of 
the  delights  of  a  good  table,  he  employed 
an  excellent  cook,  and  his  devoted  wife 
took  care  that  his  meals  should  be  of  the 
best  and  his  truffles  of  the  largest.  But  for 
the  rest  of  the  service  a  village  girl  was 
quite  sufficient,  and  he  deemed  it  by  no 
means  beneath  the  dignity  of  his  wife  and 
daughters  to  perform  domestic  duties  of 
the  most  active  sort. 


TJiomas  Couture.  99 

In  his  country  retreat  he  was  not,  how- 
ever, abandoned.  Pupils  gathered  about 
him,  living  in  the  village  so  as  to  profit  by 
the  master's  advice.  Among  these  were 
many  Americans.  Mr.  Ernest  Long- 
fellow, son  of  the  poet,  was  of  the  num- 
ber. Couture  was  an  excellent  master, 
and  took  great  interest  in  the  progress 
of  his  pupils.  His  great  precept  was, 
"  Look  at  Nature ;  copy  Nature."  He 
published  a  little  book  full  of  good  advice 
to  young  artists,  giving  the  result  of  many 
years'  experience.  All  his  pupils  were 
fond  of  him,  which  proves  that  the 
exterior  peculiarities,  which  sometimes 
shocked  strangers,  were  soon  overlooked 
by  those  who  were  able  to  appreciate  his 
sterling  qualities.  A  man  who  is  loved 
by  the  members  of  his  family,  to  whom 
all  his  friends  remain  faithful,  and  who  is 
appreciated  by  young  people,  is  sure  to 
be  of  a  thoroughly  lovable  nature. 

Still   it   must  be  owned  that  the  first 


ioo     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

impression  was  not  always  quite  agree- 
able. On  one  occasion  an  American,  a 
rather  shy  and  exquisitely  polite  gentle- 
man, and  a  great  admirer  of  Couture's 
talent,  went,  provided  with  a  letter  of 
introduction,  to  pay  his  respects  to  the 
master.  The  master  was  in  his  bath  ;  but 
when  his  wife  told  him  of  the  visit,  "  Let 
him  come  in  !  "  exclaimed  he ;  and,  much 
to  our  countryman's  confusion,  he  was 
received  by  Couture,  soaking  placidly  in 
his  bath.  He  rather  splashed  his  visitor, 
for,  like  many  Frenchmen,  he  gesticulated 
freely  while  conversing. 

Couture  was  fond  of  telling  the  story 
of  his  first  pupil.  He  was  still  a  young 
man  when,  one  morning,  he  heard  a  timid 
knock  at  his  door.  "  Come  in  !  "  said  he, 
in  that  big,  gruff  voice  of  his,  scarcely 
calculated  to  encourage  shy  visitors.  A 
young  fellow,  slightly  deformed,  dressed 
like  a  well-to-do  countryman,  entered, 
and,    not    without    much    hesitation    and 


Thomas  Couture.  ioi 

much  stuttering,  begged  the  painter  to 
take  him  in  as  pupil.  "  I  have  no  pupils, 
and  I  wish  for  none,"  was  the  discour- 
aging answer.  But  the  youth,  if  he  was 
timid,  was  tenacious;  he  would  be  so  dis- 
creet; his  master  need  not  feel  his  pres- 
ence ;  all  he  asked  for  was  a  corner  of 
the  atelier  from  which  he  could  see  the 
great  artist  at  work ;  he  would  make 
himself  of  use,  wash  the  brushes,  set  the 
palette,  run  errands,  —  do  anything,  in 
short,  that  was  required  of  him.  Couture 
continued  to  say  no  ;  the  young  man  con- 
tinued to  plead.  Finally  the  artist  im- 
patiently took  up  his  pipe  and  found 
that  his  tobacco-pouch  was  empty.  "  Go 
and  buy  me  some  tobacco  ! "  he  cried. 
The  young  man  disappeared,  and  soon 
returned ;  Couture  smoked,  was  mollified 
—  and  yielded. 

This  strange  pupil  remained  with  him 
for  more  than  a  year.  Couture  often 
wondered  how  he  managed  to  live.     He 


102     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

seemed  poor,  but  he  never  borrowed 
money.  He  spent  all  his  time  working, 
without  showing  very  great  natural  talent, 
and  Couture 's  excellent  heart  was  much 
concerned.  How  was  that  poor  fellow 
ever  to  get  salt  for  his  porridge  with  his 
painting? 

One  day  the  pupil  begged  a  great  favor 
of  his  master,  —  to  let  him  invite  him  to 
dinner.  Couture  consented ;  and,  to  his 
amazement,  the  young  man,  dressed  like 
a  gentleman,  took  him  to  the  best  restau- 
rant in  Paris,  and  ordered  the  best  dinner 
that  restaurant  could  provide. 

The  poor,  humble  pupil  who  ran  on 
his  errands  and  washed  his  brushes  was 
a  very  rich  amateur,  whose  passion  for 
painting  had  led  him  to  seek  the  sincere 
and  disinterested  lessons  of  a  master  he 
admired.  Later,  Couture  went  to  visit 
his  ex-pupil,  whose  name  was  M.  Dutuit, 
in  the  latter's  beautiful  chateau  in  Nor- 
mandy, which  contained  one  of  the  finest 


Thomas  Couture.  103 

collections  of  pictures  and  rare  curiosities 
in  all  France.  It  is  needless  to  say  that 
the  master  was  received  with  enthusiasm 
by  the  pupil. 

Couture's  method  of  giving  a  lesson  to 
his  pupils  was  as  follows :  While  they 
looked  on  he  painted  a  head  from  the 
"model,  and  while  he  painted  made  judi- 
cious remarks  as  to  the  drawing,  the 
color,  the  light  and  shade.  Some  of 
these  heads,  dashed  off  in  two  hours,  are 
charming.  M.  Barbedienne,  Couture's 
great  friend  and  admirer,  possesses  sev- 
eral of  them. 

In  the  same  collection  are  numerous 
drawings,  sketches,  half-finished  pictures, 
most  interesting;  to  those  who  like  to  fol- 
low  the  workings  of  an  original  genius. 
Among  these  is  the  sketch  for  his  pic- 
ture, "  The  Love  of  Gold."  Seated  at  a 
table,  a  man  with  a  fiendish  face  grasps 
bags  of  gold,  jewels,  and  precious  stones  ; 
crowding  about  him,  eager  for  the  spoil, 


104     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

we  see  beautiful  women,  writers  willing 
to  sell  their  pen,  artists  their  brushes, 
warriors  their  valor.  Couture's  love  for 
symbolical  painting  grew  with  years,  de- 
veloped probably  by  solitude.  In  the 
very  retired  life  which  he  led  he  did  not 
follow  the  movement  of  modern  art ;  he 
even  refused  to  see  what  other  artists  did, 
declining  to  let  them  see  his  own  works. 
Another  of  his  symbolical  pictures,  of 
which  M.  Barbedienne  possesses  a  large, 
nearly  finished  sketch,  shows  us  a  beau- 
tiful young  woman  seated  in  a  carriage, 
whip  in  hand,  driving,  instead  of  horses, 
a  group  of  men,  —  among  them  a  poet,  a 
warrior,  and  a  satyr-like  old  lover.  I  pre- 
fer, as  a  general  thing,  his  simpler  works. 
Among  these  I  must  speak  of  a  little  pic- 
ture representing  a  boy  carrying  a  tray 
on  which  are  glasses  full  of  wine  or  red 
syrup ;  his  head  is  covered  with  a  sort  of 
white  twisted  cloth,  and  is  singularly  liv- 
ing and  strongly  painted. 


TJiomas  Couture.  105 

Couture  s  love  of  symbolical  pictures 
sometimes  carried  him  to  the  verge  of 
caricature,  as  in  his  series  of  pictures  of 
lawyers.  He  had  two  pet  hatreds,  — 
lawyers  and  doctors.  In  M.  Barbe- 
dienne's  gallery  are  some  very  spirited 
drawings  and  sketches  of  lawyers  speak- 
ing before  the  court,  or  sleeping  during 
the  discourse  of  their  brother  lawyers. 
As  to  doctors,  he  never  would  allow  one 
in  his  house.  He  was  so  violent  in  his 
animosity  that,  when  he  fell  ill,  he  refused 
all  medical  aid.  And  his  was  a  terrible 
disease,  which  could  not  be  cured,  al- 
though his  sufferings  might  at  least  have 
been  somewhat  allayed. 

My  poor  friend  died  of  a  cancer  in  the 
stomach  on  the  27th  of  March,  1879. 
His  loss  was  a  great  sorrow  to  me.  We 
had  been  young  men  together ;  we  had 
seen  years  roll  on  without  bringing  any 
change  in  our  mutual  feelings,  and  when 
one  of   us  experienced  some   success  in 


106     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

life  it  was  a  joy  to  the  other.  For  his 
talent  I  had  a  sincere  and  profound  ad- 
miration ;  for  his  strong  and  manly  nature 
the  greatest  sympathy.  He  was  a  friend 
in  the  broadest  and  best  sense  of  the 
word. 


CROWNS    AND   CORONETS. 

A  T  times  when  I  look  back  upon  my 
Ions:  career  it  seems  to  me  like 
a  tale  of  olden  times,  of  some  mortal 
guided  through  forests  and  over  moun- 
tains, across  seas  and  plains,  by  a  familiar 
and  capricious  spirit.  My  guide  brought 
me  through  many  a  strait,  and  led  me 
into  very  unexpected  worlds. 

As  a  mere  boy  in  Boston,  1  was  for- 
tunate enough  to  have  as  a  sitter  a  very 
charming  and  beautiful  woman,  a  leader 
of  fashion  of  those  far-away  days,  Mrs. 
Otis,  and  in  an  odd,  round-about  way 
it  was  due  to  her  that  I  painted  my 
first  portrait  in  the  world  of  crowns  and 
coronets. 


io8     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

One  day  —  it  was  in  1834 — I  was 
working  in  the  Louvre  very  earnestly 
from  that  most  adorable  of  pictures, 
Correggio's  "  Mystical  Marriage  of  Saint 
Catherine." 

My  impression  when  I  first  saw  that 
wonderful  gallery  was  that  really  the 
old  masters  were  singularly  overrated ; 
that  if  their  fame  had  not  been  conse- 
crated  by  the  admiration  of  several 
centuries,  people  would  be  willing  to 
admit  that  we  modern  artists  —  I  dare 
say  I  added,  we  Yankees  —  were  quite 
capable  of  painting  as  well  and  with 
more  dash  and  brilliancy.  Perhaps 
many  a  young  and  audacious  ignoramus 
has  thought  and  even  said  as  much 
before  and  since.  When  I  began  to 
open  my  eyes,  to  learn  my  art,  to  copy 
these  old  masters,  I  began  also  to  under- 
stand that  the  admiration  of  centuries 
was  perhaps  justified,  and  that  it  might 
require  some  years  of  hard  work  before 


Crowns  and  Coronets.  109 

I  quite  came  up  to  Raphael,  Vinci,  or 
Correggio. 

At  any  rate,  I  was  that  clay  doing 
my  best,  as  humbly  as  I  then  knew 
how,  to  copy  the  "  Marriage,"  when  I 
suddenly  felt  that  I  was  no  longer  alone 
before  my  easel.  Visitors,  English  visi- 
tors especially,  would  often,  while  visiting 
the  Louvre,  stop  and  look  at  the  various 
copies.  These  two,  husband  and  wife 
evidently,  pleasant-looking  people,  were 
English,  and  questioned  me  with  inter- 
est. Then  they  moved  off  with  a  few 
kindly  words  of  praise,  and  I  never  ex- 
pected to  see  them  again. 

A  little  later  I  started  for  Italy,  —  a 
pilgrimage  which  tempts  every  young- 
painter, —  and  naturally  I  travelled  as 
economically  as  possible.  Generally  my 
journeys  were  accomplished  on  foot ;  but 
Italy  is  a  long  way  off,  and  I  crossed 
Mont  Cenis  in  the  stage-coach.  At 
Alexandria  we  stopped  to  rest,  and  the 


no     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

first  people  I  saw  at  the  inn  were  the 
English  travellers.  To  my  great  surprise 
and  pleasure  they  recognized  me  and 
spoke.  In  Switzerland  they  had  met  a 
friend  to  whom,  incidentally,  they  had 
mentioned  the  young  American  painter  ; 
the  friend,  who  was  Mrs.  Otis,  exclaimed  : 
"  Why,  that  must  be  George  ! '  And  so 
"  George  "  seemed  no  longer  a  stranger 
to  them,  and  Sir  Arthur  Brooke  Faulk- 
ner and  his  charming  wife  became  the 
kindest  friends  and  patrons  of  the  un- 
known American  painter. 

Sir  Arthur  and  Lady  Faulkner  trav- 
elled in  their  own  carriage.  They  most 
graciously  offered  me  a  place  in  it  for 
the  rest  of  the  journey ;  I  need  not  say 
how  eagerly  I  accepted.  In  these  days 
of  steam  we  rush  through  the  countries 
we  visit;  we  do  not  really  see  them. 
Travelling  in  a  comfortable,  venerable- 
looking  coach,  ingeniously  packed  with 
all  sorts  of  portable  luxuries,  roomy  and 


Crowns  and  Coronets.  1 1 1 

easy,  stopping  where  and  when  one 
chooses,  is  a  delight  of  which  our  young 
people  can  scarcely  form  an  idea.  My 
enthusiasm  for  the  lovely  country  in 
which  we  found  ourselves  was  enhanced 
by  the  delights  of  a  new  and  warm  friend- 
ship. By  the  time  we  reached  Naples  it 
was  an  understood  thing  that  I  should 
before  long  go  to  London  and  meet  my 
kind   English  friends. 

Events  seemed  about  to  shape  my 
career  into  that  of  an  English  artist. 
Sir  Arthur  Faulkner,  whose  position  in 
the  London  world  was  a  high  one,  ob- 
tained sittings  for  me  from  the  Duke 
of  Sussex,  uncle  to  the  present  Queen. 
This  was  a  splendid  opening  for  a  young 
painter,  and  I  did  my  very  best.  The  por- 
trait pVoved  successful,  and  brought  me 
various  commissions  and  some  notice. 

The  Duke  of  Sussex,  who  was  in  those 
days  a  middle-aged  man,  and  usually  wore 
a  velvet  cap  on  his  bald  head,  was  most 


1 12     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

amiable  and  simple.  He  had  made  a 
left-handed  marriage  with  a  lady  who 
bore  the  title  of  Duchess  of  Inverness. 
He  was  not  the  only  one  of  the  family 
who  had  done  so;  only  he  remained 
faithful  to  his  chosen  mate.  She  was 
a  very  little  woman,  just  five  feet  tall, 
and  he  was  a  man  of  superb  stature,  —  six 
feet  four  inches.  But  in  that  big  body 
beat  a  very  soft  and  tender  heart.  He 
was  romantic  too,  and  a  preux  chevalier. 
He  would  sing:  love-ditties  to  his  fair 
duchess,  accompanying  himself  on  the 
guitar.  It  was  a  little  comical  to  see, 
perhaps,  especially  on  account  of  his 
baldness  and  portly  figure,  but  I  never 
felt  inclined  to  smile  at  this  amiable 
weakness  of  his. 

Lady  Agnes  Buller,  twin  sister  of  the 
Duke  of  Northumberland,  was  one  of  the 
most  kind  and  charming  of  my  sitters  at 
that  time,  toward  1839.  Her  conversa- 
tion   was   very    interesting,    but    certain 


ALEXAXDER  BARING. 

{Lord  Ashburton.) 


Crowns  and  Coronets.  1 1 3 

faults  of  pronunciation  contracted  in  the 
nursery  were  still  perceptible,  in  spite 
of  education  and  intelligence.  She  was 
nearly  always  obliged  to  repeat  the  word 
"picture"  to  get  it  right,  being  always 
tempted  to  say  "  pictur."  She  envied 
the  children  of  modest  parents  who  were 
not  shut  up  with  nursery  governesses  and 
maids. 

Lord  and  Lady  Waldegrave  also  or- 
dered their  portraits.  Lady  Waldegrave 
was  the  daughter  of  the  famous  singer, 
Braham.  This  delightful  tenor's  name 
was  really  Abraham  ;  but  the  children  of 
Israel  not  being  yet  in  odor  of  sanctity, 
he  thought  he  might  Christianize  his 
name  by  signing  it  A.  Braham. 

One  of  my  pleasantest  remembrances  of 
those  days  was  a  holiday  spent  most  joy- 
ously by  my  young  wife  (I  had  just  mar- 
ried), some  artist  friends,  and  myself. 
During  a  sitting  Lord  Waldegrave  ex- 
claimed :  "  You  ought  to  visit  Strawberry 

8 


114     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

Hill ;  it  is  classic  ground."  Strawberry 
Hill  was  his  country-seat  at  Twickenham, 
on  the  Thames.  He  sent  orders  to  his 
housekeeper  to  prepare  a  good  luncheon 
for  us.  We  started  early,  taking  boat  on 
the  river,  and  I  doubt  whether  a  merrier 
party  of  young  people  ever  enjoyed  a 
more  perfect  day.  I  do  not  know  what 
the  correct  servants  in  livery  who  waited 
on  us  thought  of  these  Americans  who 
filled  the  superb  dining-room  with  their 
jokes  and  laughter;  but  I  am  sure  they 
considered  that  our  people  are  endowed 
with  remarkable  appetites.  I  well  re- 
member a  certain  dish  heaped  up  with 
a  formidable  quantity  of  lamb  chops. 
It  left  the  table  quite  empty. 

Strawberry  Hill,  which  had  belonged  to 
Horace  Walpole,  is  beautifully  situated, 
with  magnificent  gardens  sloping  down 
to  the  river.  It  was  here  that  Walpole 
wrote  his  famous  "  Letters."  Here  also, 
probably,  he  received  many  a  charming 


Crowns  and  Coronets.  1 1 5 

missive  from  the  Marquise  du  Deffand, 
the  blind  old  woman  so  full  of  wit  and 
charm,  whose  last  romance  —  a  very  ma- 
ternal sort  of  romance,  of  course  — 
was  woven  in  honor  of  the  fascinating 
Englishman. 

I  remember  a  very  romantic  incident 
of"  these  early  years.  I  painted  a  small 
whole-length  portrait  of  the  Master  of 
Grant,  the  head  of  the  clan,  in  his  High- 
land dress.  He  was  a  superb-looking 
man,  and  a  great  favorite  with  the  fair 
sex.  He  died  suddenly  soon  after  I  had 
finished  my  work.  Two  ladies  of  very 
high  rank  ordered  a  copy  of  my  portrait 
to  be  painted  secretly  and  sent  to  them 
under  lock  and  key.  I  never  learned  the 
exact  truth  with  regard  to  these  clients 
of  mine,  but,  naturally,  my  imagination 
built  up  a  romance  about  this  mysterious 
order. 

I  had  thus  obtained,  at  this  period  of 
my  life,  an  excellent  English  connection. 


1 1 6     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

It  seemed  as  though  I  had  but  to  con- 
tinue doing  my  very  best  to  please  my 
aristocratic  patrons  in  order  to  arrive  at 
a  good  position  and  fortune.  An  inci- 
dent interrupted  my  course,  and  my  life 
was  shaped  after  a  very  different  fashion. 
Our  Minister  at  the  court  of  France 
was  then  General  Cass.  He  and  his 
family  were  most  kind  to  me,  and  re- 
mained my  very  stanch  and  warm  friends 
to  the  end.  I  had  painted  in  1838  a  large 
portrait  of  the  General.  He  one  day  said 
to  the  King,  Louis  Philippe:  "I  wish 
your  Majesty  would  allow  a  young  coun- 
tryman of  mine  to  paint  your  portrait." 
The  King  smilingly  gave  a  vague  prom- 
ise, which,  like  many  royal  promises, 
came  to  nothing.  But  when  he  visited 
the  annual  exhibition,  which  then  took 
place  in  the  Louvre,  he  examined  the 
General's  portrait  with  interest,  and 
asked  abruptly  where  the  young  fellow 
who  painted  it  was  at   that  time.     "  In 


Crowns  and  Coronets.  1 1 7 

London,  Sire."  "  Tell  him  that,  if  he 
will  come  to  Paris,  I  am  willing  to  sit  to 
him."  Naturally  I  was  soon  at  his 
Majesty's  orders. 

General  Cass  presented  me  to  the 
King,  and  remained  during  the  whole 
of  the  first  sitting.  I  remember  that  the 
conversation  turned  especially  on  Fieschi, 
who  had  just  been  executed.  Louis  Phi- 
lippe was  not  tender  on  the  subject  of 
king-killers,  and  said :  "  My  dear  Gen- 
eral, my  country-people  like  to  play  at 
being  heroes ;  but  I  shall  let  them  see 
that  I  have  the  guillotine  and  the  galleys 
at  their  service." 

Before  beginning  the  portrait  I  ad- 
vanced toward  the  King,  so  as  to  take 
the  measure  of  his  face,  using  a  compass 
for  that  purpose.  One  of  the  courtiers, 
seeing  the  gleam  of  steel  in  my  hand, 
rushed  upon  me  and  pushed  me  aside. 
With  a  smile,  Louis  Philippe  said:  "  Mr. 
Healy  is  a  republican,  it  is  true,  but  he 


u8     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

is  an  American.  I  am  quite  safe  with 
him." 

The  King  spoke  English  most  admi- 
rably, using  it  not  only  correctly,  but  by 
no  means  disdaining  familiar  expressions. 
He  was  perfectly  simple,  natural,  and 
cordial ;  full  of  sympathy  with  Ameri- 
cans, and  remembering  his  stay  in 
America  with  pleasure. 

With  his  subjects,  however,  the  King 
revealed  himself,  at  times,  in  a  most  un- 
expected manner. 

On  one  occasion  —  it  was  one  of  the 
early  sittings  devoted  to  deciding  on  the 
attitude  —  I  was  making  a  chalk  drawing 
of  the  King.  While  we  were  trying 
various  views  of  the  head,  the  aide  de 
camp  de  service  who  assisted  at  the  sitting, 
and  who  doubtless  was  more  accustomed 
to  the  life  of  the  camp  than  to  that  of 
the  court,  threw  himself  into  an  exagger- 
ated and  theatrical  attitude,  exclaiming: 
"  Voila    une    pose,    Sire!"      The    King 


Crowns  and  Coronets.  1 19 

frowned  and  said  severely:  "Monsieur 
le  general !  "  The  poor  General  instantly 
bowed  so  low  that  he  seemed  to  double 
up,  to  collapse,  and  he  humbly  muttered  : 
"  Je  retracte,  Sire,  je  retracte  ! '  It  was 
an  insignificant  little  incident,  but  it 
showed  me  clearly  what  were,  inevitably, 
the  relations  of  sovereign  and  courtier. 

Louis  Philippe  grew  interested  in  his 
portrait,  and  his  family  with  him.  Ma- 
dame Adelaide  especially,  sister  to  the 
King,  never  missed  a  sitting,  and  I  saw 
familiarly  at  that  time  many  famous  men 
whose  names  are  now  historical ;  among 
others,  Marechal  Soult,  then  Minister  of 
War,  whom  I  painted  later. 

The  King's  portrait,  which  belonged  to 
General  Cass,  proved  a  success.1  Louis 
Philippe  sent  for  me  one  morning  and 
said  :  "Mr.  Healy,  I  understand  that  I 
was  seen  last  evening  at  your  Minister's 

1  This  portrait,  with  many  others,  was  burned  in  the 
great  Chicago  Fire  of  1871. 


120     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

in  very  good  company,  —  between  Wash- 
ington and  Guizot,  both  painted  by  you. 
Where  and  how  did  you  copy  your  Wash- 
ington ? '  I  had  simply  copied  it  from 
an  engraving  after  Stuart's  portrait  of 
Washington,  not  having  the  original 
within  my  reach.  The  King  then  told 
me  that  while  he  and  his  brother  were 
in  the  United  States  they  had  seen  Stuart 
at  work  on  the  portrait  of  Washington 
ordered  by  Mrs.  Bingham ;  during  the 
sittings  Washington  had  conversed  with 
the  young  princes.  The  King  added: 
"  And  I  want  you  to  make  me  a  copy 
of  that  very  portrait." 

The  great  difficulty  was  to  know  where 
to  find  it.  Louis  Philippe  said  he  would 
write  at  once  to  his  Ambassador  to  Lon- 
don, the  Comte  de  Saint-Aulaire,  and 
that  I  was  to  return  in  a  week's  time  to 
hear  the  result  of  his  inquiries.  When 
I  was  next  summoned  to  the  Tuileries, 
the  King  exclaimed,   as  soon   as  he  saw 


Crowns  and  Coronets.  12 1 

me:  "Mr.  Healy,  we  are  dished!  The 
portrait  is  in  Russia,  and,  under  present 
circumstances,  I  can  ask  nothing  of  the 
Russian  Government.  What  are  we  to 
do?  I  must  have  my  Washington.  I 
have  set  my  heart  on  it ! "  1  proposed 
to  copy  the  whole-length  portrait  which 
hangs  in  Faneuil  Hall,  in  Boston.  "  No, 
no  ;  that  is  in  his  military  uniform,  and 
I  want  him  as  the  President  of  the  United 
States,  in  his  black  velvet  suit.  Will  you 
start  for  America,  and  do  for  the  best  ? 
I  leave  the  whole  affair  in  your  hands. 
You  might  copy  the  portrait  which  Mrs. 
Madison  cut  from  its  frame  in  18 14,  when 
the  English  burned  the  city  of  Washing- 
ton. At  any  rate,  I  shall  approve  what- 
ever you  decide  to  do." 

And  so  it  was  that  the  unquiet  spirit 
which  all  my  life  has  turned  my  steps 
now  here,  now  there,  sent  me  back  to 
America.  The  President,  John  Tyler, 
allowed    me  to  paint  in  the  room  where 


122     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

the  portrait,  a  rather  feeble  imitation  of 
Stuart,  hung,  and  still  hangs.  Later, 
when  I  passed  through  London,  I  inci- 
dentally learned  that  the  portrait  which 
Louis  Philippe  fancied  was  in  Russia  was 
in  reality  close  to  Portland  Place,  having 
been  purchased  by  an  American,  the  late 
John  D.  Lewis.  The  trustees  of  the 
estate  allowed  me  to  finish  my  copy  from 
it.  The  King  graciously  declared  him- 
self well  pleased  with  my  work,  and 
gave  me  orders  for  various  other  copies, 
which  are  still  to  be  seen  in  the  Palace 
of  Versailles. 

Among  these  copies  were  to  be  cer- 
tain historical  portraits  belonging  to 
the  Queen  of  England.  It  was  not 
easy  to  obtain  permission  to  copy  in 
Windsor  Castle,  but  a  king's  request 
is  always  granted.  I  had  the  oppor- 
tunity, while  working  in  what  was  then 
called  the  Waterloo  Gallery,  —  the  name 
was  changed  later,  when  Napoleon  III. 


Crowns  and  Coronets.  123 

visited  Windsor,  —  of  noticing  the  dif- 
ference of  etiquette  in  the  two  courts. 
Louis  Philippe  never  seemed  to  consider 
it  beneath  his  kingly  dignity  to  be  pleas- 
ant and  kind.  Queen  Victoria  evidently 
feared  to  address  an  obscure  commoner. 

I  was  one  day  at  work  copying  the 
portrait  of  Lord  Bathurst,  by  Lawrence, 
when  the  Queen  and  Prince  Albert 
crossed  the  gallery  and  stopped  to  look 
at  what  I  was  doing.  As  she  wished  for 
some  details  as  to  the  order  the  King  of 
France  had  given  me,  etc.,  she  turned 
to  her  husband,  saying,  "  Ask  Mr.  Healy 
if,"  etc.;  and  Prince  Albert  put  the 
questions  to  me,  as  though  he  had  been 
translating  from  a  foreign  tongue.  Then 
she  exclaimed,  looking  at  my  copy,  "  It  is 
extremely  like,"  and,  with  the  slightest 
possible  bend  of  the  head,  passed  on. 
I  own  that  my  American  blood  rather 
boiled  in  my  veins.  But  my  indignation 
did    not   prevent  me   from  looking  very 


124     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

hard  at  her  Majesty.  I  was  struck  by  the 
delicacy  of  the  features  and  complexion 
of  the  young  Queen,  and  by  the  extreme 
elegance  of  her  very  handsome  husband. 
This  was  in   1S41. 

The  Revolution  of  1848,  which  sent 
Louis  Philippe  to  England  an  exile,  de- 
prived me  of  my  royal  patron,  and  ended 
my  fortune  in  France.  My  English  con- 
nection was  lost,  most  of  my  kind  friends 
being  dead  or  dispersed.  During  this 
long  period  I  had  gone  frequently  to  the 
United  States,  and  there  had  painted 
many  people  of  note  and  made  many 
stanch  friends ;  but  I  had  always  re- 
turned to  France.  In  1855  I  went  to 
Chicago  for  the  first  time,  and  a  year 
later  my  family  joined  me.  It  seemed 
then  that  I  was  never  likely  again  to 
have  anything  more  to  do  with  kings, 
queens,  or  princes. 

Overwork  having  brought  on  a  state  of 
nervous  prostration,  I  made  up  my  mind, 


Crozvns  and  Coronets.  125 

in  1866,  to  return  to  Europe.  As  long 
as  I  remained  in  Chicago  I  was  certain 
to  do  more  than  my  strength  would  per- 
mit, and  prolonged  sleeplessness  was  be- 
ginning to  tell  on  my  health.  My  family 
sailed  for  France  in  June,  1866,  and  I  fol- 
lowed just  a  year  later,  in  time  for  the 
"Universal   Exhibition. 

We  spent  some  years  in  Rome,  where 
I  worked  with  more  moderation  than  in 
America,  and  my  health  became  excellent 
once  more ;  and  it  was  in  Rome  that, 
very  unexpectedly,  I  again  found  myself 
the  painter  of  princely  sitters. 

In  1869  the  Duke  of  Nassau  visited 
the  different  Roman  studios.  He  wished 
to  have  a  portrait  of  his  young  niece,  the 
Princess  Oldenburg,  then  affianced  to 
the  Duke  of  Weimar.  I  was  fortunate 
enough  to  be  chosen ;  and  the  Princess, 
a  fair  young  girl  of  about  seventeen,  gave 
me  sittings.  Her  proposed  husband 
watched    the    progress    of    the    portrait. 


126     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

and  I  was  then  painfully  impressed  with 
the  evident  want  of  sympathy  which  ex- 
isted between  the  affianced  pair.  How- 
ever, the  preparations  for  the  wedding 
went  on.  It  was  on  the  very  eve  of  the 
marriage-day  that  the  poor  young  bride 
found  courage  to  break  it  off.  The  af- 
fair —  almost  unheard-of  in  the  world 
to  which  she  belonged  —  made  a  terrible 
stir.  I  must  say  that  my  most  hearty 
sympathies  were  with  my  gentle,  fair 
young  sitter. 

But  if  the  Duke  of  Weimar's  visits  to 
my  studio  were  not  always  perfectly  pleas- 
ant, another  visitor  was  welcome  as  sun- 
shine itself.  This  was  a  cousin  of  the 
young  Princess  of  Oldenburg,  the  ex- 
quisite and  charming  Princess  of  Rou- 
mania,  since  queen  of  that  country.  She 
had  been  sent  to  Rome  for  her  health, 
and  was  greatly  enjoying  all  she  saw ; 
enjoying  also  her  freedom  from  court 
etiquette,    and,    I    think,    maliciously   re- 


Crowns  and  Coronets.  127 

ducing  the  lady  of  honor  and  the  cham- 
berlain who  accompanied  her  to  the  verge 
of  despair. 

Before  the  portrait  of  her  cousin  was 
quite  finished," the  Princess  of  Roumania 
ordered  hers,  as  a  surprise  for  her  hus- 
band. I  painted  her  dressed  in  the  na- 
tional costume  ;  it  consisted  of  a  sort  of 
embroidered  chemise,  with  long  loose 
sleeves,  an  open  jacket,  a  red  skirt  em- 
broidered in  gold,  red  morocco  boots, 
and  a  thin  tissue  veil  covering  the  whole 
costume,  also  embroidered  in  red  and 
gold.  The  dress  was  very  becoming  to 
her ;  her  expressive  face  was  almost  per- 
fect, the  only  defect  being  a  rather  high 
forehead.  Since  those  days  she  has  worn 
her  hair  according  to  the  present  fashion, 
cut  and  curled  on  the  forehead,  so  that 
this  slight  defect  is  no  longer  noticeable. 

Of  late  years  the  Queen  of  Roumania 
has  become  well  known,  and  has  been 
much  written  about  in  America  as  well 


128     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

as  in  Europe.  Under  the  name  of  Car- 
men Sylva,  she  has  published  poems  and 
novels,  meditations  and  dramatic  works, 
not  only  in  German,  her  native  tongue, 
but  also  in  French.  She  has  been 
crowned  by  the  French  Academy ;  and 
Pierre  Loti,  the  author  of  "  Pecheurs 
d'Islande,"  has  written  about  her  with 
great  enthusiasm,  if  not  with  perfect  dis- 
cretion. But  more  than  twenty  years 
ago,  when  she  visited  my  studio,  she  was 
scarcely  known  beyond  her  own  circle 
and  the  privileged  few  who  were  admitted 
to  her  charming  presence.  She  told  me, 
during  the  long  sittings,  all  about  her 
home  life ;  about  "  Carl,"  her  husband ; 
about  her  lovely  little  baby  girl,  —  so 
soon,  alas !  to  be  taken  from  her ;  about 
her  interest  in  her  adopted  country,  and 
her  desire  to  do  everything  humanly  pos- 
sible for  the  happiness  of  her  people. 

She  was  born   Princess  of  Neuwied,  a 
very  small  and  modest  principality  on  the 


PRINCESS  ELIZABETH. 
{Since  Queen  of  Roumanian 


Crozvus  and  Coronets.  129 

Rhine,  and  she  was  brought  up  by  her 
admirable  mother  as  simply  as  any  coun- 
try girl  of  her  neighborhood.  Her  edu- 
cation, however,  was  most  complete ;  she 
speaks  English  and  French  as  perfectly 
as  her  own  tongue,  and  with  no  vestige 
of  accent.  She  is  an  excellent  musician, 
and  has  a  curious  talent  for  miniature- 
painting  and  old-fashioned  illuminating. 
All  that  she  does  she  seems  to  do  with 
perfect  facility ;  and  whatever  her  task 
may  be,  she  accomplishes  it  with  as 
much  ardor  as  though  her  whole  future 
depended  upon  its  success. 

I  think  that  all  who  have  approached 
the  Queen  of  Roumania  will  agree  with 
me  when  I  say  that  no  woman  was  ever 
more  thoroughly  a  woman,  more  daintily 
refined,  more  genuinely  warm-hearted, 
kind,  compassionate,  more  enamored  of 
all  that  is  pure  and  noble ;  and  if  ever 
these  lines  meet  her  eyes,  I  rejoice  to 
think  that  the  homage  of  her  American 

painter  may  not  displease  her. 

9 


1 30     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

In  the  course  of  the  sittings  the 
Princess  questioned  me  about  the  dif- 
ferent members  of  my  family.  I  own  to 
a  weakness  which  I  have  often  tried  in 
vain  to  overcome.  I  cannot  refrain  from 
talking  about  my  wife  and  children ;  and 
just  about  that  time  my  first  grandson 
was  born,  so  that  he  also  came  in  for  a 
share  of  fond  gossip.  The  Princess 
seeming  interested,  —  I  have  said  how 
indulgent  she  was,  —  I  ventured  to  say 
that  if  she  wished  to  confer  a  great  favor 
on  her  painter  and  dine  at  his  house,  he 
would  then  present  the  members  of  his 
family  to  her.  "  But  I  should  delight  to 
dine  with  you,  Mr.  Healy;  it  would  be 
such  fun  !  "  And  she  really  did  seem 
to  enjoy  the  dinner,  and  the  absolute 
lack  of  etiquette  and  ceremony,  the 
hearty  pleasure  each  and  all  felt  in  her 
sweet  presence.  Only  I  fear  that  her 
lady  of  honor  suffered  cruelly.  The 
Princess  was   so   gay,   so  happy,  so   de- 


Crowns  and  Coronets.  131 

lighted  with  the  music  of  a  French 
"Grand  Prix  de  Rome  "  from  the  Villa 
Medicis  hard  by,  so  full  of  admiration 
for  the  beauty  of  our  American  country- 
women, that  surely  court  etiquette,  as 
represented  by  the  worthy  lady,  must 
have  been  at  every  moment  ruffled  and 
exasperated. 

I  was  sincerely  most  sorry  when  the 
portrait  was  finished  and  my  charming 
sitter  had  gone  back  to  her  adopted 
country.  But  in  1872  I  was  called  to 
Roumania  by  the  Prince ;  and  I  remained 
at  the  court  some  months,  painting  various 
portraits  of  the  Prince,  of  his  wife,  and 
their  beautiful  little  daughter,  who  died 
shortly  after.  It  was  their  only  child ; 
and  they  have  had  none  since,  to  their 
very  great  sorrow. 

I  painted  the  little  girl's  portrait,  not 
at  Bucharest,  but  in  the  mountains,  at 
Sinaia,  where  the  court  spends  all  the 
warm  months.    The  King  has  since  built 


132     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

a  beautiful  palace  on  the  wooded  moun- 
tain slope  ;  but  when  I  first  went  to  Sinaia 
the  palace  had  only  been  planned,  and  we 
lodged  as  best  we  could  —  not  very  well, 
in  truth  —  in  an  old  monastery,  where  we 
had  some  difficulty  in  finding  a  painting- 
room  of  any  sort.  But  I  worked  out  of 
doors  a  great  deal.  The  little  Princess 
is  represented  seated  on  a  rock  in  the 
woods ;  and  her  mother,  dressed  in  the 
national  costume,  which  she  habitually 
wears,  is  seen  behind  the  child,  and  half 
hidden  by  her. 

It  was  agreed  that,  in  my  character  of 
American,  of  Republican,  I  might  dis- 
pense with  all  ceremony.  The  Prince 
treated  me  as  kindly  as  did  the  Princess, 
and  I  was  allowed  to  work  as  lone  and  as 
quietly  as  in  my  own  studio,  taking  my 
meals  at  the  royal  table  when  I  chose  or 
having  them  served  in  my  painting-room. 
Both  husband  and  wife  would  come  in 
familiarly  now  and  again  to  see  how  I 


Crowns  and  Coronets.  133 

was  getting  along,  and  sit  down  to  have 
a  little  talk.  On  one  occasion  I  remem- 
ber that  the  Princess,  who  was  generosity 
itself,  who  was  always  giving  and  had 
innumerable  proteges,  showed  me  her 
purse,  which  seemed  very  empty,  saying : 
"Isn't  it  flat,  Mr.  Healy?  My  poor 
purse, —  it  is  its  normal  condition!'' 

Once  again  I  was  to  see  Roumania. 
It  was  in  1 88 1.  I  had  gone  to  America, 
as  I  had  been  accustomed  to  do  every 
few  years,  and  was  at  work  in  Chicago. 
A  despatch  from  the  Princess  of  Rou- 
mania reached  me  at  a  moment  when 
several  portraits  were  already  begun.  The 
Prince  had  been  named  colonel  of  a  Prus- 
sian regiment,  and  of  an  Austrian  one 
also.  The  rule  in  such  a  case  is  for  the 
royal  colonel  to  send  his  portrait  to  his 
new  regiment,  which  is  a  platonic  way 
of  commanding  it.  I  was  requested  to 
paint  both.  I  excused  myself  to  my 
Chicago  friends,  promised  to  return  soon, 


1 34     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

and  the  next  Saturday  found  me  a  pas- 
senger on  a  transatlantic  steamer.  It 
was  during  this  visit  to  Bucharest  that 
the  Prince  and  Princess  became  King 
and  Queen.  One  day,  while  I  was  at 
work,  the  chamberlain  came  to  request  my 
presence  near  my  royal  hosts.  I  found 
them  in  the  throne-room.  The  Prince 
was  evidently  full  of  emotion,  and  so  was 
his  wife.  All  the  members  of  the  Cham- 
bers were  introduced.  They  had  just 
voted  the  new  dignity,  and  came  in  a 
body  to  proclaim  the  result  of  the  vote. 
It  was  a  very  simple  ceremony :  the  dele- 
gates were  in  their  ordinary  clothes,  and 
passed  in  order  before  their  sovereigns. 
The  King's  hand,  which  held  his  written 
address,  trembled  visibly. 

But  though  my  sitters  were  now  "  Maj- 
esties," our  relations  remained  as  charm- 
ing as  ever,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
both,  however  flattered  and  pleased  they 
might    be,   half   regretted    the    old    title. 


Crowns  and  Coronets.  135 

When  I  took  leave  of  my  hosts,  it  was 
with  a  sad  and  heavy  heart,  as  though 
this  parting  were  likely  to  be  the  last.  I 
have  not  seen  them  since. 

During  my  stay  in  Rome  I  painted  from 
memory  a  portrait  of  Pope  Pius  IX.  His 
Holiness,  having  seen  this  unfinished 
work,  liked  it,  and  consented  to  give  me 
a  few  sittings.  This  was  a  great  favor, 
which  I  highly  appreciated.  So  far  I 
had  only  seen  the  Pope,  with  other  stran- 
gers, at  the  Vatican  receptions,  or  from 
afar  when  he  officiated  at  St.  Peter's, 
before  the  events  of   1870. 

I  was  introduced  one  morning  into 
Pius  IX.'s  library;  a  pleasant  room,  sim- 
ply enough  furnished,  full  of  books,  the 
table  covered  with  papers.  The  Pope 
was  dressed  all  in  white  cloth,  with  scar- 
let shoes;  the  hair  was  white,  the  face 
rather  pale,  with  very  bright  eyes,  not  in- 
capable of  sparkle,  for  his  Holiness  knew 
how  to  take  a  joke.     He  was  a  pretty 


136     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

good  sitter,  but  somewhat  restless,  and 
curious  also  as  to  what  his  painter  was 
about.  On  one  occasion  he  arose  from 
his  seat  to  look  over  my  shoulder.  When 
I  am  earnestly  at  work,  I  wish  my  sitters 
to  help  me,  and  do  their  duty  by  remain- 
ins:  in  the  attitude  I  have  chosen.  I  ex- 
claimed,  perhaps  a  little  abruptly :  "  I  beg 
your  Holiness  to  sit  down."  The  Pope 
laughed  and  said  :  "  I  am  accustomed  to 
give  orders,  not  to  receive  them.  But 
you  see,  Mr.  Healy,  that  I  also  know  how 
to  obey,"  and  submissively  went  back  to 
his  chair. 

Pius  IX.  has  been  dead  now  many  a 
year.  I  like  to  think  of  the  few  short 
sittings  he  gave  me  in  his  cheerful  li- 
brary;  I  like  to  remember  his  quiet, 
pleasant  talk,  his  rather  Italian-sounding 
French,  his  judgments  of  men  and  things. 
One  day,  speaking  of  a  monk  who  had 
left  the  Church  and  married,  he  observed, 
not   without   glee:    "  He    has    taken    his 


POPE   PIUS  IX. 


Crowns  and  Coronets.  137 

punishment  in  his  own  hands."  I  like 
especially  to  feel  as  though  the  hours 
spent  in  his  presence  had  cast  a  glow  on 
my  later  years,  as  the  glorious  setting  sun 
behind  St.  Peter's  throws  a  glamour  over 
Rome,  its  domes  and  gardens.  I  often 
think,  also,  of  Pius  IX. 's  gentle  reproach 
to  one  of  my  countrymen  who,  in  his 
American  pride,  refused  to  bend  before 
him :  "  My  son,  an  old  man's  blessing 
never  did  harm  to  any  one." 


AMERICAN    STATESMEN. 

T  OUIS  PHILIPPE,  King  of  France, 
whose  sympathies  with  our  country 
are  well  known,  ordered  me  to  paint  por- 
traits of  American  statesmen  for  the 
Versailles  Gallery.  Early  in  the  spring 
of   1845   he  said,  — 

"  Mr.  Healy,  I  hear  that  General  Jack- 
son is  very  ill.  You  must  start  at  once 
for  the   Hermitage." 

The  Hermitage,  General  Jackson's 
country  place,  was  within  twelve  miles 
of  Nashville,  Tennessee.  I  lost  no  time, 
and,  somewhat  fatigued  by  the  long  jour- 
ney, a  good  deal  excited,  a  little  un- 
nerved, too,  by  the  excessive  heat,  though 


American  Statesmen.  139 

it  was  only  the  last  day  of  April,  I  drove 
to  the  old  hero's  door. 

General  Jackson  was  suffering  from 
moving  dropsy,  and  for  forty  days  and 
forty  nights  had  been  unable  to  lie 
down.  He  sat  in  a  big  arm-chair, 
propped  up  with  pillows ;  he  was  worn 
out  with  fatigue  and  pain,  and  it  was  not 
without  difficulty  that  I  was  admitted  to 
his  presence. 

I  was  so  full  of  my  object,  so  eager 
about  it,  that  without  any  preparation  I 
at  once  made  my  request.  Nature  evi- 
dently never  intended  me  to  be  a  diplo- 
mat. It  is  not  impossible  that  General 
Jackson  looked  upon  me  as  an  impostor. 
At  any  rate,  he  answered  curtly, — 

"Can't  sit,  sir,  —  can't  sit." 

"  But,  General,  the  King  of  France,  who 
has  sent  me  all  this  way  on  purpose  to 
paint  you,  will  be  greatly  disappointed." 

"Can't  sit,  sir,  —  not  for  all  the  kings 
in  Christendom  I" 


140     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

I  could  o:et  nothing  more  from  him, 
and,  sick  at  heart  with  the  disappoint- 
ment, I  bowed  and  left  the  irascible  old 
man. 

On  my  return  to  Nashville  I  told  my 
story  to  a  friend  of  mine,  who  greatly 
blamed  me  for  having  gone  directly  to 
the  General.  Long  suffering  had  made 
him  suspicious  of  all  strangers.  He  ad- 
vised me  to  see  young  Mrs.  Jackson, 
who  happened  to  be  at  a  friend's  house 
in  town  that  very  day.  The  General  had 
adopted  the  son  of  an  old  friend,  Mr. 
Donelson,  who  took  the  name  of  Jackson. 
His  wife,  a  young  and  very  charming 
woman,  was  a  great  favorite  with  the 
General,  and  had  real  influence  over  him. 
I  went  at  once,  and  requested  a  few  min- 
utes' conversation  with  Mrs.  Jackson. 
She  listened  to  my  story,  read  the  King's 
letter,  which  I  had  neglected  to  show  to 
the  General,  and  promised  to  do  her  best. 
She  added  :  — 


ANDREW  JACKSON. 


American  Statesmen.  141 

"  I  own  that  I  am  not  very  sanguine. 
Father  is  very  ill,  and  it  is  not  easy  to 
make  him  change  his  resolutions.  Should 
I  succeed,  my  husband  will  call  at  your 
hotel  at  eleven  o'clock  to-morrow,  in  order 
to  drive  you  back  to  the   Hermitage." 

As  can  well  be  imagined,  I  spent  a  very 
restless  and  feverish  night.  It  was  really 
hard  to  have  taken  so  long  a  journey  for 
nothing. 

Mrs.  Jackson  told  me  afterwards  that 
her  task  had  not  been  an  easy  one.  At 
her  first  words  he  exclaimed,  — 

"  Can't  sit,  child.  Let  me  die  in 
peace." 

She  insisted,  used  her  best  arguments 
—  all  in  vain.     Finally  she  said,  — 

"  Father,  I  should  so  like  you  to  sit." 

He  hesitated,  much  moved  by  her  ear- 
nestness, and,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
answered,  — 

"  My  child,  I  will  sit." 

And    so,  at   eleven  the  next  morning, 


142     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

young  Mr.  Jackson  drove  up  to  my  hotel, 
and  it  was  with  a  light  heart  that  I  took 
my  place  at  his  side. 

When  the  General  saw  me,  he  said,  — 

"  Sir,  you  made  a  faux  pas  yesterday. 
You  should  have  shown  me  the  King's 
letter." 

After  this  things  went  on  very  pleas- 
antly and  easily.  I  was  admitted  into 
the  sick-room  as  much  as  I  chose,  and 
the  General  before  long  seemed  to  like 
to  have  me  near  him.  He  was  as  polite 
and  gracious  as  he  had  been  unfriendly 
and  curt.  But  he  suffered  greatly,  and 
on  one  occasion  he  said,  — 

"  I  wish  I  could  do  you  greater  justice 
as  a  sitter,  Mr.  Healy." 

I  assured  him  that  all  I  asked  was  that 
he  might  forget  altogether  that  he  was  a 
sitter. 

When  the  portrait  was  finished,  the 
different  members  of  the  family  assem- 
bled to  see  it.    All  approved  it  so  warmly 


American  Statesmen.  143 

that  the  General  begged  me  to  make  a 
copy  of  it  for  his  adopted  children.  I 
replied  that  a  copy  never  had  the  living 
look  of  an  original,  and  that  if  he  could 
endure  the  fatigue  of  further  sittings  this 
first  portrait  should  be  for  him,  and  I 
could  paint  another  for  Louis  Philippe. 
This  he  readily  agreed  to,  and  I  began 
my  second  portrait.  When  it  was  fin- 
ished, in  its  turn,  the   General  said,  — 

"  Mr.  Healy,  will  you  remain  at  the 
Hermitage  long  enough  to  paint  a  whole- 
length  portrait  of  my  dear  child  ?  I 
request  this  as  a  personal  favor."  The 
"  dear  child  "  was  young  Mrs.  Jackson. 

I  had  just  heard  that  Mr.  Clay,  whose 
portrait  also  the  King  had  ordered,  was 
about  to  leave  Nashville,  and  I  considered 
that  my  duty  was  to  try  to  get  a  few  sit- 
tings before  he  left  the  city.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  impressive  way  in  which 
the  General  said,  after  he  had  listened  to 
me,  — 


144     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

"Young  man,  always  do  your  duty; 
never  allow  anything  to  turn  you  from 
it." 

But  I  was  soon  back  again.  Mr.  Clay 
had  already  left  Nashville,  and,  owing  to 
an  accident  to  the  river  boat  which  he 
had  taken,  no  one  could  tell  me  where  he 
was  at  that  moment.  I  at  once  began  the 
portrait.  General  Jackson  watched  its 
progress  with  eager  interest,  and  on  more 
than  one  occasion  exclaimed,  — 

"  I  hope  the  Lord  will  spare  me  long 
enough  to  see  my  dear  child's  portrait 
finished  ! " 

I  began  it  early  in  the  week,  and  on 
the  Saturday  afternoon  it  was  almost 
finished.  Theold  man  was  much  pleased, 
and  looked  forward  to  the  following  Mon- 
day morning,  when  I  was  to  give  the  last 
touches. 

1  was  awakened  early  on  Sunday  by  a 
long,  pitiable  wail.  It  was  the  cry  of  the 
negro  servants,  —  a  sort  of  cadenced  cry  ; 


American  Statesmen.  145 

"Oh,  Lord!  Oh,  Lord!  Old  massa 's 
dead  !  Old  massa  's  dead  ! '  The  wail 
was  then  caught  up  by  the  slaves  outside 
of  the  house,  until  it  spread  far  and  wide, 
all  over  the  plantation ;  it  was  echoed 
here  and  there,  now  sounding  close  by, 
now  dying  off  in  the  distance,  always  the 
same  :  "  Old  massa  s  dead  !  Oh,  Lord  ! 
Old  massa  's  dead  !  " 

It  chilled  the  blood  to  hear  it,  and  I 
remained  sadly  enough  in  my  room,  not 
daring  at  such  a  time  to  intrude  upon 
the  family.  However,  I  soon  learned,  from 
two  boys,  nephews  of  Mrs.  Jackson,  that 
"  Grandfather,"  as  they  called  the  General, 
was  not  dead;  he  had  had  a  long  fainting- 
fit, which  had  at  first  been  mistaken  for 
death,  but  the  end  was  not  far  off. 

At  about  six  in  the  evening  I  went  to 

the    door    of     the    sick-room     for    news. 

George,  the  General's  black  servant,  said 

that  his  master  was  very  low.      I   turned 

to  go,  when  young  Mr.  Jackson,  his  face 

10 


146     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

bedewed  with  tears,  came  to  me.  "  Come 
in,"  said  he;  "father  is  dying."  As  I 
hesitated  to  disturb  them  in  their  grief, 
he  continued :  "  Please  come  in.  I  wish 
it. 

Ten  or  twelve  persons  were  already  in 
the  room,  and  all  were  weeping.  The 
General  was  propped  up  in  bed,  his  head 
sustained  by  his  great  friend,  Major 
Lewis.  Mrs.  Jackson  was  kneeling  by 
the  bedside,  holding  his  hand ;  on  the 
other  side  of  the  bed  the  faithful  negro 
servant  stood. 

The  General  seemed  unconscious,  but 
suddenly  he  rallied  and  looked  about 
him.  He  said  very  distinctly  :  "  Why  do 
you  weep  for  me  ?  I  am  in  the  hands  of 
the  Lord,  who  is  about  to  release  me. 
You  should  rejoice  that  my  sufferings 
are  at  an  end." 

These  were  his  last  words.  His  head 
dropped,  and  soon  all  was  over.  On  see- 
ing this,  his  adopted  daughter,  his  "  dear 


American  Statesmen.  147 

child,"  fainted,  and  was  carried  from  the 
room. 

After  leaving  the  Hermitage,  where  I 
remained  some  little  time  after  Jackson's 
death  to  finish  his  adopted  daughter's 
portrait,  I  went  on  to  Ashland,  Clay's 
beautiful  country-place  near  Lexington, 
Kentucky.  The  contrast  was  great  in 
every  respect.  Instead  of  tears,  of  suffer- 
ing, of  death,  I  found  happiness,  luxury, 
and  joyous  life.  Clay,  though  he  had 
been  a  poor  boy  and  a  struggling  young 
man,  was  at  that  time  one  of  the  most 
popular  and  successful  orators  and  poli- 
ticians of  the  United  States.  He  was 
very  fascinating  in  manner,  and  his 
friends  took  to  heart  his  defeat  when  he 
ran  for  the  Presidency  almost  as  much 
as  he  did  himself. 

On  one  occasion  he  said  to  me:  "  Mr. 
Healy,  you  are  a  capital  portrait-painter, 
and  you  are  the  first  who  has  ever  done 


148     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

justice  to  my  mouth,  and  it  is  well 
pleased  to  express  its  gratitude."  Clay's 
mouth  was  a  very  peculiar  one,  thin- 
lipped  and  extending  almost  from  ear  to 
ear.  "  But,"  he  added,  "  you  are  an  in- 
different courtier;  though  you  come  to 
us  from  the  French  King's  presence,  you 
have  not  once  spoken  to  me  of  my  live- 
stock. Don't  you  know  that  I  am 
prouder  of  my  cows  and  sheep  than  of 
my  best  speeches  ?  " 

I  confessed  my  want  of  knowledge  on 
the  subject,  but  I  willingly  accompanied 
him  around  the  grounds,  and  admired  the 
superb  creatures,  saying  they  would  do 
very  well  in  a  picture.  I  fear  that  that 
was  not  the  sort  of  appreciation  he  ex- 
pected, and  that  I  sank  very  low  in  his 
esteem  from  that  moment. 

But  on  another  occasion  I  proved  a 
worse  courtier  still.  His  jealousy  of 
Jackson  is  well  known,  and  the  two  men 
formed  a  very  striking  contrast.      During 


HENRY  CLAY. 


American  States  in  en.  149 

a  long  sitting  he  spoke  of  his  old  rival, 
and,  knowing  that  I  had  just  painted  the 
dying  man's  portrait,  he  said,  — 

"  You,  who  have  lived  so  long  abroad, 
far  from  our  political  contests  and  quar- 
rels, ought  to  be  an  impartial  judge. 
Jackson,  during  his  lifetime,  was  held  up 
as  a  sort  of  hero ;  now  that  he  is  dead  his 
admirers  want  to  make  him  out  a  saint. 
Do  you  think  he  was  sincere  ? ,! 

"  I  have  just  come  from  his  death-bed," 
I  answered;  "  and  if  General  Jackson  was 
not  sincere,  then  I  do  not  know  the 
meaning  of  the  word." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  keen  look  shot 
at  me  from  under  Mr.  Clay's  eyebrows ; 
but  he  merely  observed,  — 

"  I  see  that  you,  like  all  who  ap- 
proached that  man,  were  fascinated  by 
him." 

Another  time  a  friend  of  Mr.  Clay, 
Mr.  Davis,  speaking  of  Jackson's  prover- 
bial obstinacy,  said  that  one  day,  looking 


150     Renwiiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

at  a  horse,  Jackson  remarked :  "  That 
horse  is  seventeen  feet  high."  "  Seven- 
teen hands  you  mean,  General."  "  What 
did  I  say?"  "You  said  seventeen  feet." 
"  Then,  by  the  Eternal !  he  is  seventeen 
feet  high." 

Clay  would  never  have  sworn  to  the 
seventeen  feet.  He  knew  how  to  make 
himself  loved  as  well  as  admired.  After 
his  defeat  by  Polk  he  refused  to  see  any 
one.  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  his 
friends  obtained  his  presence  at  a  ban- 
quet given  in  his  honor.  When  he  en- 
tered the  dining-hall,  where  two  hundred 
guests  were  assembled,  no  one  present  was 
able  to  restrain  his  tears,  so  popular  was 
Mr.  Clay  and  so  great  was  the  disappoint- 
ment at  not  having  him  for  President. 

It  was  at  a  dinner  given  by  Clay  at 
Ashland  that  I  first  saw  and  heard  the 
"  negro  minstrels."  I  was  delighted  with 
them,  and  found  the  performance  as  ori- 
ginal as  it  was  charming.     The  head  of 


American  Statesmen.  151 

the  company,  knowing  that  I  lived 
abroad,  asked  me  whether  I  thought  they 
would  have  any  chance  of  success  in 
Europe ;  they  had  some  idea  of  trying 
London.  I  greatly  encouraged  the  idea, 
being  persuaded  that  they  would  succeed 
admirably.  Before  I  returned  to  Europe 
they  were  all  the  rage  in  English  society ; 
the  Queen  was  much  pleased  with  their 
songs  ;  and,  naturally,  where  she  smiled, 
the  court  and  the  town  laughed  and 
applauded. 

Though  I  had  proved  so  mediocre  a 
courtier,  my  stay  at  Ashland  was  most 
pleasant,  and  Mr.  Clay  was  the  most 
courteous  and  hospitable  of  hosts.  The 
portrait  was  successful,  and  we  parted  on 
the  best  terms  possible. 

Some  time  later  I  was  in  Washington, 
where  Clay  also  found  himself,  and,  re- 
membering with  pleasure  our  long  talks, 
I  hastened  to  call  upon  him.  Feeling 
sure  of  my  welcome,  I  followed  the  ser- 


152     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

vant  upstairs,  and  was  near  enough  to 
the  door  to  hear  Clay  exclaim  wearily  as 
he  looked  at  the  card  :  "  What !  another  ? 
Well,  show  him  up."  But  when  I  entered 
he  came  forward  with  the  sweetest  smile 
and  outstretched  hands,  saying  with  an 
intonation  peculiarly  his  own :  "  What ! 
you  here  ?  I  thought  you  were  with  the 
Kin  2f. 

O 

After  all,  public  men,  even  the  best  of 
them,  are  obliged  to  be  good  actors.  It 
does  not  prevent  them  from  being  true 
friends  to  the  few  they  really  care  for. 
As  to  the  others,  they  wish  merely  to  be 
popular;  popularity  is  as  necessary  to 
them  as  the  air  they  breathe. 

In  September,  1845,  I  found  myself  in 
Boston  ;  and  there  I  obtained  sittings 
from  John  Quincy  Adams  for  the  por- 
trait ordered  by  King  Louis  Philippe. 
John  Quincy  Adams  was  then  seventy- 
eight  years  of  age.      Unlike  most  of  his 


yOI/X  QUINCY  ADAMS. 


American  Statesmen.  153 

predecessors  at  the  White  House,  he 
continued  to  mix  actively  in  politics  after 
his  term  of  office.  When  he  sat  to  me 
he  was  a  member  of  Congress,  and  was 
called  the  "  old  man  eloquent."  His 
conversation  was  most  varied  and  inter- 
esting ;  so  much  so  that  at  the  time  I 
took  a  few  notes  after  each  sitting,  and 
these,  by  some  chance,  escaped  destruc- 
tion, whereas  most  of  my  papers  were 
burned  in  the  Chicago  Fire  or  have  been 
lost  in  my  frequent  travels. 

From  his  childhood  John  Quincy 
Adams  had  known  celebrated  personages 
at  home  and  abroad  ;  his  father's  name 
made  him  welcome  everywhere,  even  be- 
fore he  was  appreciated  for  his  own  sake. 
It  seemed  odd  to  talk  with  one  who  had 
been  in  France  before  the  Revolution, 
whose  father  had  spoken  to  him  fami- 
liarly of  Voltaire,  of  Buffon,  of  the  En- 
cyclopedists, of  the  French  court ;  who 
had    been    at    school     near     Paris,    with 


154     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

Franklin's  grandson,  somewhere  about 
the  year  1775.  In  1S45  the  sensation 
was  a  strange  one ;  and  writing  about 
these  things  in  1890  gives  one  an  impres- 
sion of  the  long  succession  of  genera- 
tions holding  each  other  by  the  hand 
until  they  fade   into  the  far-away  past. 

One  of  my  sitter's  earliest  and  most 
agreeable  recollections  was  that,  while 
at  school  with  Franklin's  grandson,  La 
Fayette  with  his  young  and  beautiful 
wife  visited  the  boys  frequently,  and  no- 
doubt  brought  them  sweets  from  the 
Boissier  of  that  day.  "  I  was  but  a  small 
boy  then,"  said  my  sitter,  "  but  I  still 
remember  what  a  deep  impression  the 
lovely  Marquise  made  on  my  youthful 
imagination." 

Later  he  was  able  to  be  of  service  to 
Madame  de  La  Fayette.  In  the  sum- 
mer of  1 792  La  Fayette  was  taken  pris- 
oner by  the  Austrians.  This  mishap 
doubtless  saved  his  life,  as,  had  he  been 


American  Statesmen.  155 

in  Paris  during  the  Terror,  he  would 
certainly  have  been  swept  away  by  the 
revolutionary  storm.  At  that  time  John 
Ouincy  Adams  was  Minister  at  The 
Hagrue.  He  there  received  a  letter  from 
the  Marquise  de  La  Fayette,  who  was 
ruined,  and  could  not  join  her  husband 
for  lack  of  money.  Adams  sent  her  the 
sum  she  needed  ($1,500),  only  too  happy 
to  be  of  some  service  to  the  wife  of  La 
Fayette,  remembering  also  his  youthful 
admiration  for  the  beautiful  Marquise. 
When,  in  his  turn,  Robespierre  was 
dragged  to  the  guillotine,  a  list  of  in- 
tended victims  was  found .  among  his 
papers,  and  Madame  de  La  Fayette's 
name  appeared  on  that  list. 

Once  more  John  Quincy  Adams  saw 
La  Fayette.  It  was  in  1824,  a  short 
time  before  his  election  as  President. 
La  Fayette  then  visited  America,  where 
he  was  received  with  great  enthusiasm,  as 
was  surely  quite  natural ;  and  the  Passy 


1 56     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

schoolboy,  as  Secretary  of  State,  was 
able  to  return  the  cordial  hospitality  ten- 
dered him  at  the  La  Fayette  mansion. 
John  Quincy  Adams  accompanied  the 
old  hero  to  Washington.  At  Alexandria, 
during  a  banquet  offered  to  the  "  nation's 
guest,"  the  mayor,  who  presided  at  the 
table,  received  the  news  of  Louis 
XVIII.'s  death.  Should  La  Fayette  be 
told  of  this  sad  event  or  not?  Adams 
was  consulted,  and,  knowing  that  La 
Fayette  cordially  hated  the  King,  said 
he  would  take  it  upon  himself  to  break 
the  news  to  their  guest.  He  did  so,  and 
La  Fayette  was  obliged  to  put  his  hand 
up  to  his  mouth  to  hide  a  smile. 

John  Quincy  Adams  was  a  most  cour- 
teous gentleman.  The  first  time  he 
came  to  sit  I  said  something  about  the 
annoyance  we  artists  caused  celebrated 
people.  Webster  was  very  frank  on  the 
subject ;  he  compared  us  to  horse-flies  on  a 
hot  day,  —  brush  them  off  on  one  side,  they 


American  Statesmen.  157 

settle  on  the  other.  Adams  smiled,  but 
said  that  he  was  by  no  means  of  Webster's 
opinion  ;  that  he  had  enjoyed  his  sittings 
to  artists  on  more  than  one  occasion. 
He  had,  perhaps,  found  that  a  man  busy 
with  his  brush  can  be  a  good  listener. 
I,  for  one,  listened  with  great  pleasure. 
Copley  had  painted  an  excellent  portrait 
of  my  sitter's  father,  and  when  I  asked 
permission  to  measure  the  face,  as  I  al- 
ways do,  he  observed  that  he  had  seen 
Copley  measure  not  only  his  father's 
face,  but  his  arms  and  legs.  Then  he 
spoke  of  different  painters  he  had  known. 
He  had,  as  a  boy,  seen  Reynolds,  whom 
he  greatly  admired,  but  who  would  often 
"  not  let  well  alone,"  and  spoiled  his  por- 
traits with  over-care.  Stuart  he  had  sat 
to,  though  the  portrait  had  to  be  finished 
by  Sully  after  the  great  artist's  death. 
He  had  had  many  opportunities  of  study- 
ing the  old  masters  in  the  different  gal- 
leries.      He    had    seen    the    Louvre    in 


158     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

Napoleon's  time  filled  with  the  finest 
masterpieces,  unscrupulously  taken  from 
conquered  countries. 

"  But,"  added  he,  "  there  were  too  many  ; 
it  was  a  surfeit  of  sweets ;  it  was  impos- 
sible to  appreciate  each  picture  seen  thus 
crowded  by  other  pictures.  The  Dres- 
den Gallery  has  always  seemed  to  me  an 
ideal  gallery." 

On  the  landing  outside  of  my  paint- 
ing-room, John  Quincy  Adams  noticed 
two  busts,  that  of  Voltaire  and  that  of 
Franklin. 

"  Sir,"  said  he  in  his  impressive  way, 
"•  these  I  should  take  as  representative 
men  of  their  respective  countries.  Look 
at  this  unquiet  skeleton  head,  so  full  of 
satire,  of  energy,  devilishly  intellectual, 
bold  in  thought,  but  forced  to  be  wily 
and  full  of  tricks,  capable  of  violence, 
however,  between  two  mocking  smiles. 
Voltaire  prepared  the  Revolution  which 
he  was  not  destined  to  see ;  indeed,  some 


American  Statesmen.  1 59 

of  his  letters  seem  prophetic.  My  father 
saw  him  when  he  came  to  Paris  at  the 
age  of  eighty-four,  after  having  been  a 
kind  of  voluntary  or  involuntary  exile 
during  the  latter  part  of  his  life.  Pub- 
lic opinion  turned  at  last ;  he  was  a 
sort  of  god.  When  he  assisted  at  the 
first  representation  of  his  play,  '  Irene,' 
at  the  Comedie  Francaise,  the  whole 
audience  rose  and  shouted  out  their  en- 
thusiasm. It  was  too  much  for  the  old 
man;  he  was  killed  with  kindness.  Now 
look  at  Franklin's  head.  It  seems  a  lit- 
tle heavy  in  comparison,  but  how  solid, 
how  peacefully  powerful,  how  full  of  rea- 
son and  that  first  of  qualities,  common- 
sense  1  A  strong-headed  Englishman, — 
for  he  was  an  Englishman  seventy  years 
of  his  life." 

Then  he  added:  "And  yet  I 'love 
France ;  I  was  a  boy  there ;  I  always 
went  back  with  pleasure." 

He  was  in  Paris  during  the  cent  jours. 


160     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

He  never  spoke  to  Napoleon,  but  fre- 
quently saw  him  in  public  places,  at  the 
theatres,  at  balls,  etc.  But  his  sympa- 
thies were  rather  with  the  Bourbons  than 
with  the  Bonapartes.  While  he  was 
President  of  the  United  States  he  fre- 
quently saw  Joseph  Bonaparte,  who  was 
quite  convinced  that  he  was  a  much 
greater  man  than  his  brother.  His  one 
idea,  the  object  of  all  his  diplomacy  and 
intrigues,  was  to  proclaim  his  nephew 
Emperor  under  the  name  of  Napoleon 
II.,  while  he  himself  meant  to  be  an  all- 
powerful  regent 

John  Quincy  Adams  was  an  excellent 
classical  scholar,  and  while  speaking  of 
his  favorite  authors  would  grow  quite 
excited,  with  his  eyes  cast  upward.  On 
more  than  one  occasion  I  saw  him  liter- 
ally trembling  with  emotion.  In  those 
far-away  days  cold  indifference  was  not 
yet  the  fashion.  A  man  did  not  fear  to 
show  the  enthusiasm  he  felt.    Mr.  Adams 


American  Statesmen.  161 

said  that  he  could  never,  even  then,  read 
the  account  of  the  death  of  Socrates 
without  tears  springing  to  his  eyes.  On 
one  occasion  he  made  a  learned  compari- 
son between  Demosthenes  and  Cicero, 
and  confessed  that,  in  spite  of  the  usually 
received  opinion,  his  preferences  were  for 
the  Latin  orator;  he  felt  his  eloquence 
more  than   that  of  Demosthenes. 

But  my  great  delight  was  to  make  him 
talk  about  his  early  reminiscences  of 
France  and  Frenchmen.  I  remember 
an  anecdote  which  he  heard  from  his 
father  about  Buffon.  We  had  been 
speaking  of  the  anti-Christian  movement 
of  the  last  century,  of  the  conviction 
among  the  philosophers  that,  if  the  world 
was  certainly  governed  by  some  superior 
power,  the  God  worshipped  by  mortals 
did  not  exist  under  the  form  their  im- 
agination had  given  to  him.  But  if 
the  philosophers  between  themselves  in- 
dulged in  these  bold  and  subversive  doc- 

1 1 


1 62     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

trines,  they  feared  persecution,  and  never 
openly  expressed  them  in  their  writings. 

A  German  who  had  undertaken  a  trans- 
lation of  Buffon's  works  said  to  him,  — 

"  I  see  that  you  constantly  use  the 
word  '  God.'      Do  you  believe  in  God  ? " 

"  Oh,  certainly  not.  But  in  France  I 
have  to  take  into  consideration  the  preju- 
dices of  the  people.  In  Germany  one  is 
free  to  say  what  one  thinks.  Therefore, 
each  time  you  see  '  God '  written  by  me, 
pray  translate  it  as  though  it  were  the 
word  '  nature.'  " 

This  struck  me  as  very  characteristic 
of  the  state  of  feeling  in  France  before 
the  Revolution. 

While  executing  the  orders  of  my  royal 
patron,  my  work  brought  me  in  contact 
with  the  most  celebrated  of  our  public 
men.  It  was  then  that  I  first  conceived 
the  idea  of  grouping  them  together  in  a 
large  historical  picture.     I  chose  as  my 


American   Statesmen.  163 

subject  "  Webster  Replying  to  Hayne." 
The  Erreat  orator  was  a  macrniflcent-look- 
ing  man,  with  his  deep-set  eyes,  his 
superb  brow,  and  his  fine  massive  pres- 
ence. His,  naturally,  was  one  of  the 
first  names  on  Louis  Philippe's  list.  I 
remember  that,  when  I  showed  his  por- 
trait at  the  court,  an  impulsive  French- 
woman asked  me  whether  Mr.  Webster 
had  ever  visited  Paris.  When  I  assured 
her  that  he  had  done  so,  she  exclaimed : 
"  Dieu !  et  dire  que  je  ne  l'ai  jamais 
vu ! 

I  was  as  enthusiastic  as  the  French 
lady,  but  perhaps  in  a  different  way. 
Webster  was  the  very  man  for  the  cen- 
tral figure  of  a  large  picture.  His  friends 
and  enemies,  in  various  attitudes  of  atten- 
tion, of  admiration,  or  of  indignation,  set 
him  off  very  well,  and  in  the  galleries  I 
grouped  all  the  prettiest  women  of  the 
day,  with  their  big  bonnets  trimmed 
with    drooping   plumes,  and  their  oddly 


164     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

made  dresses,  which  in  1846  or  1847  did 
not  seem  odd  at  all. 

This  was  an  immense  undertaking, 
which  required  seven  years  to  accom- 
plish. I  painted  the  picture  in  Paris  ;  but 
all  the  studies,  about  one  hundred  and 
fifty  portraits,  I  made  from  life.  When 
at  last  the  picture  was  finished  it  was  ex- 
hibited in  America,  and  finally  placed  in 
Faneuil  Hall,  where  it  is  still  to  be  seen. 

I  painted  Webster  several  times,  the 
last  being  in  1848  at  his  country-place, 
Marshfield.  I  there  made  a  small  pic- 
ture of  our  great  orator  in  his  hunting- 
gear;  Mrs.  Webster,  his  second  wife,  is 
seen  in  the  distance  in  the  doorway. 
This  lady  had  no  children ;  and  as  at 
that  time  my  wife  was  with  me  and  had 
a  small  baby,  Mrs.  Webster  declared  that 
she  would  go  barefooted  from  Washing- 
ton to  Boston  to  have  such  a  white,  soft, 
pretty  baby  of  her  own.  Her  husband 
was  very  fond  of  holding  the  little  crea- 


DANIEL    WEBSTER. 


American  Statesmen.  165 

ture  in  his  arms  and  of  playing  with  it 
after  a  solemn  fashion. 

Life  at  Mr.  Webster's  was  very  simple 
and  pleasant ;  his  children  by  his  first  wife, 
his  friends  and  relatives,  made  a  large 
home  circle.  One  of  these  relatives  on 
one  occasion  had  Webster  as  his  partner 
at  whist,  and  it  seems  that  one  can  be  a 
powerful  speaker  without  knowing  the 
rules  of  that  noble  game.  Being  much 
absorbed  by  thoughts  quite  foreign  to 
the  cards,  Webster  forgot  to  return  his 
partner's  lead,  whereupon  this  gentleman 
exclaimed :  "  Mr.  Webster,  you  play  like 
the  devil's  rag-baby  ! " 

It  was  while  I  was  thus  at  work  in  the 
United  States  that  I  heard  of  Louis 
Philippe's  fall ;  the  King  of  France  was 
an  exile  in  England.  Not  only  was  this 
a  real  grief  to  me,  but,  from  a  worldly 
point  of  view,  it  was  a  real  calamity. 
To  fulfil  the  King's  orders  I  had  left  an 
excellent  English  connection.     Many  of 


1 66     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

the  portraits  of  American  statesmen  in- 
tended for  him  were  either  not  finished 
or  remained  on  my  hands.  I  could 
scarcely  expect  that  those  who  had  over- 
thrown Louis  Philippe  would  think  of 
keeping  his  engagements. 

However,  I  continued  my  work,  and 
when  I  had  all  the  materials  ready  for 
my  big  picture,  returned  to  Paris.  I 
never  regretted  the  time  I  devoted  to  it, 
however  onerous  to  an  artist  such  un- 
dertakings usually  are ;  and  this  one 
proved  particularly  so  to  me.  But  I  hold 
it  an  honor  to  have  painted  so  many  of 
my  illustrious  country-people,  to  have 
grouped  them  about  a  man  of  whom  all 
Americans  are  so  justly  proud ;  and 
whatever  criticisms  may  be  addressed  to 
"  Webster  Replying  to  Hayne  "  as  a  pic- 
ture, I  can  at  least  affirm  that  it  was 
painted  with  absolute  sincerity  and  re- 
gard for  nature  and  truth.  Each  head 
on  that  vast  canvas  is  a  portrait. 


FRENCH    STATESMEN. 

T  HAPPENED  to  be  in  London  in  the 
spring  of  1838,  and  assisted  at  the 
festivities  of  Queen  Victorias  corona- 
tion on  the  25th  of  April.  It  was  a  very 
grand  sight,  and  all  the  different  coun- 
tries sent  representatives.  Among  these, 
Marshal  Soult,  who  represented  his 
royal  master,  Louis  Philippe,  excited 
most  interest  and  admiration.  He  was 
a  very  rich  man,  and  his  government 
spared  nothing  to  add  to  the  luxury 
which  he  was  fond  of  displaying. 

But  the  interest  attached  to  Marshal 
Soult's  embassy  was  principally  due  to 
the  way  in  which  he  was  received  by  his 
old    enemy,    the    Duke    of     Wellington. 


1 68     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

The  two  had  been  foes  worthy  of  each 
other ;  and  their  famous  campaign,  a  veri- 
table duel,  of  1813-1814,  was  still  fresh  in 
everybody's  memory.  Soult  had  been 
accused  of  knowing  that  Napoleon  had 
abdicated,  before  the  battle  of  Toulouse, 
and  having  kept  the  news  secret.  This 
was  a  calumny,  and  Wellington  himself 
refuted  it.  Then  Soult's  career  had 
been  a  very  brilliant  one,  and  very  char- 
acteristic of  his  time.  He  entered  the 
army  at  sixteen  in  1785,  and  soon  won 
for  himself  grade  after  grade.  He  was 
the  youngest  of  Napoleon's  generals  on 
whom  the  Emperor  conferred  the  title  of 
Marshal ;  he  had  taken  part  in  most  of 
the  famous  campaigns,  and  assisted  at  the 
terrible  siege  of  Genoa ;  he  was  known 
as  a  brave  soldier,  as  an  unscrupulous 
general  too,  it  must  be  said,  and  such 
men  were  highly  useful  to  Napoleon.  It 
was  Soult  whom  he  chose  for  the  Spanish 
campaign  of   1808  ;  and  if  ever  war  was 


French  Statesmen.  169 

carried  on  without  much  tender  mercy, 
it  was  during  the  five  years  that  Soult 
spent  in  that  unfortunate  country,  bat- 
tling against  Sir  John  Moore,  quarrelling 
with  Ney  and  with  the  French-imposed 
King,  Joseph. 

After  the  abdication  of  the  Emperor, 
Soult  went  over  to  the  Bourbons,  then 
returned  to  his  old  allegiance  during  the 
hundred  days,  and  assisted  at  the  battle 
of  Waterloo.  He  was  banished  from 
France  for  three  years,  but  was  then 
called  back  and  made  a  peer  of  France  in 
1827.  Under  Louis  Philippe  he  became 
Minister  of  War,  and  was  chosen  by  the 
King  to  represent  him,  as  we  have  seen, 
at  the  coronation  of  the  young  English 
Queen.  What  Montalembert  said  of 
Talleyrand  might  have  been  said  of  Soult : 
"  He  faithfully  accompanied  success." 

However  that  may  be,  it  is  certain  that 
he  was  the  observed  of  all  observers  in 
London  in  the  spring  of  1838;  and  our 


170     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

minister,  Mr.  Stevenson,  was  so  struck 
by  bis  fine  presence  and  grand  air  that 
he  bade  me  paint  his  portrait,  if  I  could 
get  him  to  sit.  This  was  easier  said  than 
done,  for  he  was  soon  called  on  to  form 
a  ministry,  and  had  no  time  to  give  to 
a  young  American  painter. 

However,  I  wrote  to  our  Minister  to 
Paris,  General  Cass,  on  the  subject.  I 
was  at  that  time  studying  Rubens  in 
Antwerp ;  a  highly  enthusiastic  stu- 
dent,—  for  to  me  Rubens  is  the  king 
of  painters.  The  General  answered 
that  he  would  try  to  obtain  what  I 
asked,  and  told  me,  meanwhile,  to  paint 
portraits  of  himself  and  family.  It  was 
through  General  Cass  that,  as  I  have  said 
before,  I  became  known  to  the  King, 
Louis  Philippe,  and  was  employed  by 
him. 

On  the  1st  of  March,  1840,  Soult's 
ministry  fell,  and  General  Cass  presented 
me    to    him.     We  were   both  invited  to 


French  Statesmen.  171 

visit  his  famous  gallery  of  pictures,  col- 
lected —  in  reality,  stolen  —  in  Spain. 
Soult  was  a  rather  rough-mannered  man  ; 
one  felt  he  had  lived  in  camps  nearly  all 
his  life,  and  had  been  accustomed  to  com- 
mand. He  was  very  proud  of  his  pic- 
tures, and  indeed  the  collection  was  a 
superb  one.  It  contained  a  number  of 
paintings  by  Murillo,  Alonzo  Cano,  and 
Ribeira.  But  the  picture  which  struck 
me  most  was  the  large  Murillo,  called 
the  "  Immaculate  Conception,"  and  which 
has  become  familiar  to  every  visitor  of 
the  Louvre,  since  it  has  been  hung'  in 
the  Salon  Carre.  But  in  those  days 
only  those  to  whom  the  Marshal  opened 
his  door  were  allowed  to  see  this  and 
his  other  pictures.  After  Soult's  death 
his  gallery  was  sold,  and  brought  nearly 
a  million  and  a  half  of  francs ;  the  "  Im- 
maculate Conception "  alone  cost  the 
Louvre  586,000  francs,  —  an  unheard 
of  price  in  those  days.     It  is   true  that 


172     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

American  millionnaires  were  not  then 
in  the  habit  of  bidding  against  the  Old 
World   amateurs. 

As  I  examined  this  picture  with  in- 
terest, for  I  had  seen  as  yet  but  few 
works  of  the  great  Spanish  master,  the 
Marshal  said  with  a  somewhat  grim 
smile :  "  That  acquisition  saved  a  man's 
life."  I  did  not  dare  to  ask  for  de- 
tails, but  was  convinced  that  those  words 
hid  some  act  of  clemency. 

In  the  evening  I  happened  to  dine 
at  the  same  table  with  an  English 
officer,  and,  as  I  was  full  of  my 
morning's  visit,  I  spoke  to  him  about 
it. 

"  Did  Soult  tell  you  how  the  picture 
saved  a  man's  life  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will.  During  the  savage 
Spanish  war  the  French  took  possession 
of  a  monastery.  Soult  sent  for  the  prior : 
1  There  was  a  picture  over  your  altar,  a 


French  Statesmen.  173 

celebrated  picture  by  Murillo.  Where 
is  it  ? '  'I  do  not  know,  Senor  General.' 
'  So  much  the  worse  for  you.  You  are 
in  my  power.  Try  to  refresh  your  mem- 
ory. If  that  picture  is  not  brought  to  me 
before  sundown,  you  shall  be  hanged  on 
yonder  tree.'  In  the  evening  the  Murillo 
belonged  to  the  French  General,  and  the 
monk  was  not  hanged  :  that  is  how  the 
picture  saved  a  man's  life." 

During  all  the  sittings  which  the  ter- 
rible  Marshal  granted  me,  I  could  not 
help  seeing  before  me  the  trembling 
monk,  and  the  tree  on  which  he  came 
so  near  swinging.  I  was  glad  to  feel  that 
I  should  never  need  Soult's  clemency. 

I  painted  a  large  portrait  of  the  Mar- 
shal in  his  superb  gold-embroidered  uni- 
form, holding  his  white  plumed  hat  under 
his  arm.  The  picture  is  now  in  the  Cor- 
coran Gallery  in  Washington. 

The  Marshal,  when  he  sat  to  me,  was  a 
little  over  seventy  years  of  age,  and  had 


1 74     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

attained  the  highest  honors  that  could  be 
accorded  to  a  soldier.  He  was  made 
"  Marechal  General,"  a  grade  to  which 
only  Turenne,  Villars,  and  Maurice  de 
Saxe  before  him  had  arrived ;  he  was 
Duke  of  Dalmatia,  and  possessed  an 
immense  fortune ;  whereas  his  old  rival, 
Ney,  not  far  from  the  Observatoire  in 
Paris,  was  shot  down  like  a  dog,  con- 
demned to  death  by  the  very  government 
which  before  long  not  only  forgave  Soult 
for  having  served  at  Waterloo,  but  cov- 
ered him  with  honors.     Such  is  life  ! 

Soult  died  some  ten  years  after  his 
portrait  was  finished. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  find  a 
greater  contrast  than  that  which  existed 
between  Soult  and  another  of  my  sitters 
of  that  far-off  time,  Guizot,  then  one  of 
the  most  prominent  of  French  statesmen. 

Guizot,  in  his  political  career,  owed 
almost  as  much  to  his  defects  as  to  his 
qualities.     No  one  had  greater  influence ; 


M.   GUIZOT. 


French  Statesmen.  175 

no  one  was  more  calumniated,  even  hated, 
by  his  opponents.  Cold  in  manner,  ex- 
quisitely polite,  he  was  inflexible  when 
he  thought  himself  to  be  in  the  right 
He  believed  in  liberty,  but  was  violently 
opposed  to  popular  suffrage.  His  early 
childhood  had  been  overshadowed  by  the 
terror  of  the  Revolution,  —  his  father, 
though  a  Liberal,  had  perished  on  the 
guillotine.  He  was,  by  his  nature  and 
his  principles,  eminently  fitted  to  be  a 
member  of  Louis  Philippe's  government. 
When  he  sat  to  me,  he  was  Minister  of 
Foreign  Affairs. 

Guizot  was  a  Protestant,  born  at 
Nimes,  one  of  the  towns  where  reli- 
gious antagonism  has  remained  violent 
even  in  these  days  of  indifference.  He 
was  a  grandson,  on  both  sides,  of  Protes- 
tant ministers,  and  had  inherited  some 
of  their  austere  and  cold  eloquence. 
His  early  education,  after  his  father's 
tragical  end,  was  carried  on  in   Geneva, 


176     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

that  hot-bed  of  Protestantism.  There 
he  acquired  the  perfect  knowledge  of 
English,  as  well  as  of  other  foreign 
languages,  which  proved  so  useful  to 
him  in  the  early  and  very  hard  years 
of  his  struggle  for  daily  bread.  He  had, 
when  a  very  young  man,  translated  and 
commented  upon  Gibbon's  "  Decline  and 
Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,"  was  a  great 
student  of  Shakespeare,  and  an  admirer 
of  English  ways  and  English  liberty. 
His  biography  of  Washington  so  pleased 
our  country-people  that  some  American 
gentlemen  requested  me  to  paint  a  por- 
trait of  the  author. 

Guizot,  who  was  a  highly  respected 
professor,  but  whose  lectures  were  a  little 
cold  and  dry,  and  who  as  a  political  man 
excited  such  violent  antipathies,  in  pri- 
vate life  was  not  only  a  man  of  pure  and 
high  principles,  but  full  of  tenderness 
and  delicacy.  The  story  of  his  first  mar- 
riage is  very  characteristic. 


Frc7icJi  Statesmen.  177 

As  quite  a  young  man,  he  was  intro- 
duced by  an  old  friend  into  the  most 
charming  and  select  literary  circle.  There 
he  constantly  heard  of  a  Madame  Pauline 
de  Menlan,  who  was  well  known  as  a 
writer,  but  he  had  never  happened  to 
meet  her.  Madame  de  Menlan  fell  ill, 
and  she  depended  on  her  writings  for 
her  daily  bread.  She  received  an  anony- 
mous letter  from  some  one  who  begged 
permission  to  write  her  articles  until  she 
should  be  able  to  resume  her  work.  For 
some  time  she  was  kept  in  ignorance  as 
to  her  mysterious  correspondent ;  but  at 
last  she  insisted  that  the  mask  should  be 
removed.  She,  some  years  later,  became 
the  wife  of  the  anonymous  writer,  young 
Guizot,  though  she  was  fourteen  years 
older  than  he.  This  strange  marriage 
proved  perfectly  happy ;  it  is  true  that  it 
lasted  but  a  very  short  time. 

As  a  sitter,  Guizot  was  not  onlv  cour- 
teous,  but  perfectly  charming.     His  con- 


12 


i/8     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

versation  was  varied  and  most  interest- 
ing, and  he  usually  spoke  English  ;  all 
the  notes  I  received  from  him  about 
his  sittings  were  also  written  in  Eng- 
lish. Before  beginning  the  large  portrait 
I  made  a  careful  drawing  on  a  canvas, 
just  rubbed  in  here  and  there  with  a  lit- 
tle color.  This  was  considered  so  suc- 
cessful that  I  left  it  in  its  unfinished 
state,  and  have  kept  it  ever  since. 

Guizot  was  then  a  man  of  about  fifty- 
five,  in  the  full  strength  and  vigor  of  his 
long  life,  —  he  died  in  1874,  at  the  age  of 
eighty-six.  The  head  was  remarkably 
fine  and  delicate,  the  head  of  a  scholar 
and  of  a  perfect  gentleman. 

The  name  of  Guizot  invariably  calls 
forth  that  of  Thiers.  Friends,  or  rather 
allies,  at  one  time,  they  became,  later, 
political  adversaries.  Indeed,  it  is  im- 
possible to  imagine  how  two  natures  so 
different  in  every  way,  so  opposed  even, 
could  sympathize  with  each  other.     Yet 


French  Statesmen.  179 

both  were  born  in  the  same  southern 
town  of  Nimes ;  but  Guizot  belonged  to 
the  Protestant  South,  which  is  as  differ- 
ent as  possible  from  the  real  French  South. 
Thiers  had  all  the  mobility,  the  ready  wit, 
the  brilliancy  of  his  native  place  ;  and 
these  made  of  him,  in  spite  of  his  pecu- 
liar, small,  and  high-pitched  voice,  an 
excellent  orator,  capable  not  only  of  con- 
vincing his  hearers  but  of  carrying  them 
away  with  him.  His  rival's  unbending 
and  cold  determination  seemed  to  Thiers 
the  very  reverse  of  what  is  expected  of  a 
political  man.  Yet  the  career  of  each 
seemed  to  pursue  about  the  same  lines ; 
each,  in  his  way,  was  always  before  the 
public,  and  each  followed  the  other's 
doings  with  the  uneasy  interest  one  al- 
ways feels  in  a  rival.  Some  one  said  of 
Thiers,  who  was  just  ten  years  younger 
than  his  fellow-townsman :  "  So  long  as 
Guizot  is  not  buried,  Thiers  will  always 
fancy  that  he  has  ten  good  years  before 


180     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

him  !  "     Both  lived  to  be  old,  but  Thiers 
did  not  have  his  full  ten  years  of  grace. 

I  did  not  paint  Thiers'  portrait  till  he 
was  an  old  man,  in  1875.  Our  minister 
to  Paris  was  then  Mr.  Washburn,  for 
whom  I  felt  great  friendship.  He  had 
been,  during  the  war  of  1870-1871^  very 
important  personage.  Representing  an 
entirely  independent  country,  he  was 
naturally  designed  to  take  the  place  of 
other  ambassadors  whose  stay  in  Paris 
had  become  impossible.  He  had  thus 
become  acquainted  with  all  the  leading 
men  of  the  day,  and  commissioned  me  to 
paint  portraits  of  them.  In  that  way,  by 
degrees,  he  acquired  an  historical  gallery 
perhaps  unique  of  its  kind. 

Thiers  was  the  first  who  was  requested 
to  sit  to  me.  He  was  then  a  white- 
haired  man,  very  active,  very  bright,  very 
decided  in  his  manner;  his  eyes  shone 
and  sparkled  behind  his  spectacles ;  his 
tuft  of  white  hair,  amusingly  exaggerated 


LOUIS  ADOLPIIE   THIERS. 


French  Statesmen.  .  181 

in  all  caricatures,  was  odd,  but  in  no  way- 
ridiculous  ;  his  small  body  had  remained 
very  supple,  and  he  made  the  most  of 
every  inch  of  his  diminutive  stature. 
His  conversation  was  very  varied,  full  of 
anecdotes,  and  he  was  fond  of  talking. 
When  he  did  not  feel  inclined  to  con- 
verse, he  at  once  fell  asleep.  He  was  an 
extremely  early  riser,  and  would  often 
astonish  people  by  appointing  five  or  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning:  for  a  business 
interview;  but  he  snatched  many  a  five 
minutes'  doze  during  the  day. 

Indeed,  to  the  uninitiated  this  peculiar- 
ity, which  had  extended  to  his  wife  and 
his  sister-in-law,  was  rather  startling. 
The  mansion  of  the  Place  Saint-Georges 
was  open  to  friends  every  evening ;  but  a 
visitor,  if  he  happened  to  drop  in  too 
soon  after  dinner,  before  the  greater 
number  of  guests  had  arrived,  would  not 
unfrequently  find  Madame  Thiers  fast 
asleep  on   one  side  of  the  fireplace,  Ma- 


1 82     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

demoiselle  Dosne,  her  sister,  on  the 
other,  and  the  master  of  the  house  tak- 
ing a  quiet  nap,  almost  hidden  in  a  big 
armchair  by  the  table.  And  the  nods 
with  which  a  remark  was  received  were 
not  always  nods  of  acquiescence.  On 
more  than  one  occasion  I  have  retreated 
on  tip-toe,  fearing  to  disturb  by  my  pres- 
ence the  repose  of  the  venerable  trio. 

But  if,  when  the  drawing-room  was  full 
of  interesting  guests,  the  ladies  some- 
times continued  their  peaceful  repose, 
Thiers  himself  was  wide  awake  and  in 
his  real  element. 

He  had  a  method  which  might  be  rec- 
ommended to  many  a  public  man.  He 
never  wrote  out  his  speeches,  but,  like 
actors  who  rehearse  frequently  before 
appearing  in  public,  he  would  try  the 
effect  of  his  future  speech  on  his  friends ; 
he  in  that  way  became  perfectly  familiar 
with  his  subject,  could  begin  anywhere, 
feared  no  interruptions,  was  quite  master 


French  Statesmen.  183 

of  himself ;  and  if  perchance  some  ora- 
torical effect  on  which  he  had  counted 
did  not  succeed,  he  immediately  aban- 
doned it  and  tried  another.  Often,  be- 
fore speaking  in  the  tribune,  Thiers  had 
already  made  his  speech  ten  or  twelve 
times. 

When  he  sat  to  me,  he  had  fallen 
from  power,  but  he  was  considered  the 
"occult  leader '  of  France.  He  was 
consulted,  honored,  feared.  He  could 
not  resign  himself  to  inactivity  after 
having-  for  so  Ions:  a  time  and  under  so 

o  o 

many  forms  of  government  directed  the 
political  world.  He  grouped  about  him 
as  many  as  possible  of  the  distinguished 
political  or  literary  men  of  the  day. 
Gambetta  —  the  "dauphin,"  as  people 
called  him — was  a  constant  visitor. 
Thiers  appreciated  the  talent  of  the 
young  dictator,  appreciated  also  his 
ardent  patriotism,  and  the  two  often  con- 
sulted together  as  to  the  best  means  of 


184     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

maintaining  the  Republic  and  of  combat- 
ing its  enemies.  M.  de  Remusat,  whose 
perfect  manners  made  him  a  welcome 
guest  everywhere,  and  whose  noble  life 
was  known  to  all,  was  one  of  Thiers' 
oldest  and  most  faithful  friends.  '  Mignet, 
the  historian,  was  about  Thiers'  age,  and, 
living  in  the  same  part  of  Paris  as  his 
old  friend,  was  nearly  always  to  be  seen, 
of  an  evening,  in  the  salon  of  the  Place 
Saint-Georges.  Barthelemy  Saint- Hilaire 
was  another  constant  guest.  Occasion- 
ally M.  Jules  Simon  went  to  pay  his 
court  to  Thiers,  who  had  won  for  him- 
self the  glorious  title  of  "  liberateur  du 
territoire." 

Thiers  was  very  friendly  to  our  coun- 
try, and  he  gave  me,  during  one  of  the 
sittings,  a  pleasant  proof  of  this  friend- 
liness. Some  of  his  friends  assisted  at 
this  sitting,  and  the  talk  happened  to  fall 
on  the  dramatic  author,  Sardou  :  — 

"  We    came     near    having    a    quarrel, 


French  Statesmen.  185 

Sardou  and  I,"  said  the  ex-President. 
"  As  long  as  I  was  in  power  I  absolutely 
refused  to  allow  '  Loncle  Sam  '  to  be 
represented  on  the  boards  of  a  Paris 
theatre.  I  considered  it  a  libel,  an  un- 
warranted satire  levelled  at  a  country 
which  had  every  right  to  our  sympathies." 

"  At  any  rate,"  observed  one  of  his 
friends,  "  it  is  a  satire  which  since  that 
time  has  had  great  success  and  brought 
in  large  sums  of  money  to  its  author." 

Thiers  turned  to  me,  and  said  with 
charming  courtesy,  — 

"  C  etait  payer  fort  cher  des  portraits 
bien  peu  ressemblants"  (It  was  paying 
dear  for  most  unfaithful  portraits). 

In  1877,  just  before  the  death  of 
Thiers,  I  went  to  Berlin  and,  still  at  the 
request  of  Washburn,  painted  a  portrait 
of  Bismarck.  It  was  rather  a  curious 
sensation  to  have  before  me  as  a  sitter, 
after  Thiers  and  Gambetta,  their  terrible 
adversary.     With  me,  the   Prince  felt  at 


1 86     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

liberty  to  forget  all  about  politics,  all 
about  vexing  questions.  I  lived  with 
him  and  his  family,  ate  at  their  table, 
heard  their  familiar  talk.  It  seemed  hard 
to  imagine  that  this  excellent  husband 
and  father,  this  man  who  seemed  cut 
out  to  be  a  country  gentleman,  to  hunt 
and  live  a  jolly  careless  life,  should  be 
the  Bismarck  whose  name  evoked  such 
bloody  and  cruel  memories.  "Ah!  Mr. 
Healy,"  said  he  on  one  occasion,  "  I  was 
born  with  a  kind  heart,  well  disposed 
toward  others ;  but  men  have  made  me 
hard.  Instead  of  being  Chancellor  I 
ought  to  have  been  the  Pope  of  Rome." 
In  the  course  of  conversation,  the  Prince 
spoke,  not  only  with  consideration  but 
with  admiration,  of  Thiers.  Alluding 
to  the  fortress  of  Belfort,  which,  by 
dint  of  energy  and  excellent  diplomacy, 
Thiers  had  saved  for  France,  Bismarck 
said :  "  He  is  a  good  patriot." 
On    my    return  to    Paris   I   called    on 


French  Statesmen.  187 

Thiers,  and  had  great  pleasure  in  re- 
peating to  him  what  the  great  German 
had  said.  It  was,  I  think,  peculiarly 
pleasant  to  the  French  statesman. 

An  anecdote  to  finish.  It  is  perfectly 
authentic,  told  by  Thiers  himself. 

I  said  that  when  I  at  last  obtained  sit- 
tings of  Soult  in  1840  he  had  fallen  from 
power.  His  successor  was  Thiers.  The 
King,  Louis  Philippe,  knew  that  the  Mar- 
shal clung  to  power,  and  that  his  fall 
would  be  bitter  to  him.  But  all  was  ar- 
ranged beforehand ;  the  future  ministers, 
with  Thiers  at  their  head,  were  assembled 
at  the  Tuileries,  while  in  the  next  room 
Louis  Philippe  broke  the  news  to  Soult. 
The  interview  took  a  long  time,  and  the 
new  ministers  were  not  without  some 
apprehension.  "  Finally,"  here  I  quote 
Thiers,  "  the  door  was  opened  just 
enough  to  allow  the  King's  head  —  you 
know  that  queer  pear-shaped  head  —  to 
pass,  and  he  whispered  to   us :   'A  little 


1 88     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

patience,  gentlemen,  just  a  little  patience, 
—  we  are  weeping  together  ! ' 

It  was  in  1877  that  I  painted  my  por- 
trait of  Gambetta,  intended  for  Mr. 
Washburn. 

Gambetta  was  also  from  the  South : 
indeed,  it  seems  as  though  the  heat  of 
the  Southern  sun  were  necessary  to  ripen 
eloquence.  He  was  born  at  Cahors,  a 
picturesque  little  town,  and  never  lost  his 
rolling  accent,  which  so  adds  to  the  force 
of  a  fine  tirade.  It  has  always  been  said 
that  Mirabeau  would  not  have  been  quite 
Mirabeau  without  his  accent,  and  that 
had  a  Northern  man  said  the  famous 
"  Nous  sommes  ici  par  la  volonte  du 
peuple,  et  nous  n'en  sortirons  que  par 
la  force  des  bai'onnettes !  "  history  would 
scarcely  have  recorded  it  as  it  has  done. 
Gambetta  has  often  been  compared  to 
Mirabeau  for  his  impetuous  eloquence, 
and  his  influence  on  the  masses. 
He    was    not     a     correct     speaker,    he 


LEON  G AM B ETTA. 


French  Statesmen.  189 

cared  but  little  for  academic  elegance, 
and  his  speeches,  published  since  his 
death,  hardly  give  an  idea  of  the  tre- 
mendous torrent  of  the  spoken  words. 
The  voice  was  powerful,  the  gestures 
appropriate,  and  above  all,  he  was  so 
much  in  earnest,  so  carried  away,  him- 
self, by  the  passion  of  the  moment  that 
it  was  impossible  to  resist  "  ce  diable 
d'homme  !  " 

From  his  youth,  when,  as  a  poor  stu- 
dent of  law,  he  came  to  Paris,  he  almost 
at  once  took  position  as  a  leader.  His 
young  comrades  flocked  about  him  ;  he 
never  doubted  that  he  was  destined  to 
do  great  things ;  they  never  doubted  it, 
either.  It  is  said  that  Thiers,  as  a  mere 
boy,  was  wont  to  say,  "  When  I  am  in 
the  ministry,  I  shall  do  so  and  so ; " 
and  what  would  have  seemed  ridiculous 
boasting  in  another  was  quite  natural 
with  him,  no  one  ever  thought  of 
smiling.      Not    more    than    Thiers,    did 


190     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

Gambetta  doubt  the  future.  Only  his 
future  was  destined  to  be  a  very  short 
one ;  he  died  at  forty-three  years  of  age. 
Personally,  Gambetta  was  much 
courted,  and  his  friends  loved  him  dearly. 
He  had  that  rare  gift,  personal  mag- 
netism. And  yet  he  was  full  of  faults ; 
he  never  could  rid  himself  of  certain 
rough  habits,  contracted  in  his  youth ; 
accustomed  especially  to  men's  society, 
he  was  at  times  a  little  coarse,  loud- 
voiced,  and  in  the  habit  of  putting 
himself  very  much  at  his  ease  wherever 
he  happened  to  be.  I  remember  that 
my  first  impression  of  the  great  orator 
was  not  a  favorable  one.  It  was  in 
1875,  at  a  well-known  political  lady's 
house,  where  all  the  men  prominent  in 
the  republican  party  assembled  regularly. 
Gambetta  had  spoken  that  day  at  the 
Chamber  with  even  more  than  ordinary 
success ;  enthusiasm  was  at  its  height, 
and   he  was  the  great  man  of  the  day. 


French  Statesmen.  191 

He  came  late,  and  though  usually  when 
he  went  into  society  he  took  refuge  in 
the  smoking-room,  where,  surrounded  by 
his  usual  court,  he  could  drink  beer  and 
talk  with  perfect  freedom,  that  evening 
he  went  into  the  drawing-room.  Seated, 
or  rather  half-reclining  on  a  lounge,  he 
was  immediately  surrounded  by  the  pret- 
tiest and  most  charming  young  women  of 
the  society,  who,  seated  about  him,  seemed 
almost  in  adoration  before  this  popular 
idol.  It  would  have  been  difficult  for 
any  man  to  remain,  in  spite  of  such 
flattery,  quite  simple  and  unspoiled. 
With  my  American  ideas  on  the  subject 
of  feminine  dignity,  I  own  that  this  little 
scene  shocked  me  greatly. 

But  these  were,  after  all,  but  small  de- 
fects. When  one  thinks  of  the  immense 
popularity  of  this  young  man  after  the 
disastrous  war  of  1 870-1871,  of  the  way  in 
which  power  seemed  to  be  thrust  upon 
him,   how  easv    it    would    have    been   to 


192     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

usurp  more  than  the  surname  of  "  Dicta- 
tor "  which  his  adversaries  gave  him,  and 
with  what  proud  and  pure  patriotism  he 
refrained  from  making  use  of  the  danger- 
ous  weapon  he  held  in  his  hand,  one  can 
but  admire  him.  With  many  faults  he 
had  one  great  virtue,  —  he  loved  his 
country  above  all  things,  more  than 
himself. 

As  a  sitter,  he  was  particularly  simple- 
mannered  and  pleasant.  He  had  real 
sympathy  with  America  and  Americans, 
'though  he  had  but  few  opportunities  of 
meeting  my  country-people,  and  he  did 
not  know  a  word  of  English.  But  with 
the  men  of  republican  convictions  who 
grew  up  during  the  Empire,  America  was 
a  sort  of  rallying  word,  and  I  fear  that  in 
the  fancy  of  many  an  enthusiastic  youth 
our  country  was  endowed  with  more  stoi- 
cal and  pure  republican  virtues  than  it 
could  honestly  lay  claim  to.  Spartan  sim- 
plicity is  not  perhaps  our  invariable  rule. 


French  Statesmen.  193 

When  General  Grant  made  his  tour 
through  Europe,  accompanied  by  his  wife 
and  son,  knowing  that  I  was  acquainted 
with  Gambetta,  he  expressed  the  desire 
of  meeting  him.  I  was  fortunate  enough 
to  have  both  these  great  men  at  my  table. 
If  in  the  smoking-room  Gambetta  some- 
times allowed  himself  a  certain  license, 
in  the  presence  of  General  Grant  and 
our  other  friends,  it  would  have  been 
impossible  to  imagine  a  better-mannered, 
more  courtly  gentleman.  He  had  evi- 
dently determined  to  make  a  good  im- 
pression on  the  celebrated  American 
General ;  and  certainly  he  succeeded. 

The  contrast  between  the  two  was  a 
very  striking  one,  —  Grant,  with  his  char- 
acteristic square  American  head,  full  of 
will  and  determination,  his  reddish  beard 
sprinkled  with  gray,  his  spare  gestures, 
and  his  taciturnity;  and  this  Frenchman, 
with  his  Southern  exuberant  manner,  his 

gestures,  his  quick   replies,  the  mobility 

13 


1 94     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

of  expression  on  his  rather  massive  face. 
Some  premature  white  was  seen  in  his 
very  black  hair  and  beard ;  his  one  eye 
was  full  of  fire  and  expression  (the  other 
was  a  glass  eye) ;  his  person  was  some- 
what unwieldy,  but  his  movements  were 
rapid  and  easy.  They  seemed  typical 
representatives  of  the  two  nations.  On 
one  point,  however,  they  were  quite  alike. 
If  Gambetta  spoke  no  English,  Grant 
knew  not  a  word  of  French.  But  they 
said  very  flattering  things  to  each  other, 
which  one  of  my  daughters  was  kept 
busy  in  translating;  each  was  delighted 
with  the  other.  Indeed,  in  order  to  dis- 
agree, the  first  requisite  is  to  dispense 
with  an  interpreter. 

In  another  trifling  matter  the  contrast 
was  very  strong.  Grant  confided  to  Mrs. 
Healy  that  all  these  grand  dinners  at 
which  he  assisted  day  after  day,  with 
their  innumerable  dishes  and  varied 
wines,  wearied    him  to   death,    and    that 


French  Statesmen.  195 

he  would  give  them  all  for  a  good  honest 
dish  of  pork  and  beans.  In  the  midst 
of  his  sparkling  talk  and  charming 
amiability,  the  Frenchman  found  means 
of  studying  the  menu  with  a  connois- 
seur's attention  ;  his  choice  fell  upon 
the  most  refined,  truffled,  and  unhealthy 
of  the  dishes.  Seeing  my  daughter, 
who  sat  by  him,  take  a  slice  of  roast 
beef,  he  gently  reproached  her  for  not 
choosing  such  or  such  a  delicacy 
instead. 

His  fondness  for  the  good  things  of 
this  world  was  destined  to  play  Gambetta 
an  ugly  trick.  He  would  certainly  have 
died  young,  for  he  was  a  man  who 
spent  his  strength  in  overwork  and  in 
pleasure  too;  but  his  liking  for  truffles 
and  highly  spiced  dishes  helped,  it  is 
said,  to  hasten  his  end. 

When  the  news  of  his  death  spread 
abroad,  he  was  mourned  most  sincerely ; 
and    even    his    political    enemies  —  and 


196     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

they  were  numerous  —  were  bound  to 
pay  their  tribute  to  this  very  remark- 
able man,  this  great  and  noble  patriot. 
I  have  always  been  happy  to  look  back 
upon  the  days  when  he  sat  to  me  and 
talked  in  his  free,  simple,  and  charming 
way. 

My  portrait  of  M.  Jules  Simon  was 
painted  in  1889,  and  exhibited  in  the 
Salon  of  1890.  It  is  intended  for  the 
Newberry  Library  of  Chicago,  to  which 
institution  I  have  determined  to  leave  a 
number  of  my  historical  portraits. 

It  is  difficult  to  speak  of  a  man  still 
living,  even  though  he  -belongs  partly  to 
history,  and  few  men  are  more  difficult  to 
define  than  M.  Jules  Simon.  He  has  been 
from  his  youth  a  stanch  republican,  and 
refused  to  take  the  oath  required  of  all 
public  functionaries,  when  Napoleon  III. 
came  into  power.  M.  Jules  Simon  was 
then  professor  at  the  Sorbonne,  and  well 
known  for  his  eloquence.     He  had  not  a 


French  Statesmen.  197 

penny  of  his  own,  and  did  not  hesitate 
to  lose  his  place,  for  conscience'  sake, 
though  he  had  a  wife  and  children. 
He  is  known  to  be  most  scrupulously 
honest;  yet  he  has  had  bitter  enemies, 
even  in  his  own  party.  He  has  rep- 
utation, he  is  admired,  and  yet  has 
never  attained  that  highest  rank  which 
seemed  his  due.  He  is  known  to  be 
clever,  perhaps  too  clever,  in  his  deal- 
ings with  men,  using  a  sort  of  diplo- 
matic finesse  when  a  straightforward 
simple  course  might  suffice.  He  has 
not  a  very  exalted  idea  of  humanity  in 
general,  and  does  not  hide  his  feelings 
quite  enough,  doubtless.  Had  men 
known  how  to  appreciate  him  as  he 
certainly  deserved  to  be  appreciated,  his 
opinion  of  human  nature  might  have 
been  modified. 

Born  in  Brittany  in  1814,  he  came  to 
Paris  as  a  very  young  man,  penniless,  but 
determined  to  make  his  way  in  the  world. 


198     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

He  entered  the  Ecole  Normale,  which 
has  formed  so  many  eminent  professors, 
historians,  political  men,  and  men  of 
science. 

One  of  the  leading  philosophers  of 
that  day  was  Victor  Cousin,  a  man  who, 
though  he  exercised  real  influence  over 
his  contemporaries,  has  been  severely 
judged  by  the  present  generation.  Young 
Simon  became  his  secretary,  and  had  every 
occasion  of  studying  him.  Some  years 
ago  M.  Jules  Simon  published  a  little 
book  on  his  old  master  which  is  a  per- 
fect gem,  and  one  of  the  most  amusing 
biographies  I  have  ever  read.  It  is  a 
superb,  whole-length  portrait  of  the  old 
philosopher,  with  his  handsome  face,  his 
elevated  theories,  his  utter  heartlessness, 
his  talent  for  making  use  of  young  men, 
and,  while  seeming  to  do  them  a  favor, 
extracting  from  them  their  brains,  their 
time,  their  very  life.  Yet  the  outward 
forms    of    respect   are    scrupulously    ob- 


French  Statesmen.  199 

served.  The  wit  — and  it  is  full  of  wit  — 
is  veiled  and  softened  and  made  exquisite 
by  its  very  discretion. 

Perhaps  one  of  the  secrets  of  M.  Jules 
Simon's  want  of  popularity  is  his  well- 
known  humor,  his  satirical  vein,  his  power 
of  portraying  people,  —  at  times  even  of 
caricaturing  them.  Those  who  are  most 
willing  to  laugh  at  the  grotesque  likeness 
of  a  friend  are  rarely  willing  to  sit  for 
their  own  portrait. 

As  a  conversationalist,  M.  Jules  Simon 
is  justly  celebrated.  When  he  suddenly 
remembers  some  anecdote,  some  trait  of 
this  or  that  celebrated  man  whom  he 
once  knew,  —  and  there  are  fewr  great 
men  whom  he  has  not  known,  —  his 
whole  aspect  changes,  he  then  forgets 
that  he  is  an  old  man ;  the  eyes  brighten, 
the  drooping  figure  straightens,  the  head 
is  no  longer  held  a  little  on  one  side, 
the  whole  face  is  lighted  up.  The  voice, 
a  little  weak  and  high-pitched,  is  at  first 


200     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

almost  feeble,  and  then  grows  stronger 
as  the  interest  increases.  This  is  true 
not  only  of  his  conversation  but  of  his 
public   speeches. 

His  anecdotes  about  Cousin  are  mostly 
well  known  ;  but  here  is  one  which  does 
not  figure  in  his  biography,  and  which 
M.  Jules  Simon  tells  with  peculiar  gusto. 

Some  years  ago,  at  the  funeral  of  a 
member  of  the  French  Academy,  all 
the  Academicians,  according  to  custom, 
assisted  at  the  ceremony  in  their  gala 
costumes,  —  green  embroidered  dress-coat 
and  sword  at  the  side. 

One  of  these  gentlemen,  as  he  climbed 
into  a  mourning-carriage  where  M.  Jules 
Simon  had  already  taken  place,  got  the 
sword  between  his  legs  and  exclaimed  : 
"  When  one  is  not  accustomed  to  this 
sort  of  thing,  it  is  singularly  embarrass- 
ing !  "  "  Yes,"  answered  M.  Simon,  "  but 
it  is  a  more  useful  instrument  than  one 
is  apt  to  think."     As  he  was  pressed  to 


French  Statesmen.  201 

say  how  and  under  what  extraordinary 
circumstances  an  Academician's  sword 
could  be  of  use,  he  began  in  his  peculiar, 
high-pitched  voice  :  — 

"  When  I  slaved  for  Cousin,  he  gener- 
ously gave  me  for  my  work  eighty-four 
francs  (not  quite  seventeen  dollars)  a 
month.  Toward  the  end  of  the  fourth 
week  the  obtaining  of  a  dinner  was  a 
harder  problem  to  solve  than  any  of  the 
metaphysical  questions  I  worked  over 
during  the  day.  On  one  occasion,  my 
purse  being  as  flat  as  any  of  the  speeches 
we  are  to  make  presently,  I,  toward  the 
end  of  the  afternoon,  went  to  pay  a  visit 
to  my  old  master.  As  the  door  opened, 
a  delicious  odor  of  roasting  chicken 
greeted  me.  Never  did  perfume  seem 
more  enchanting.  Cousin  was  fond  of 
a  good  talk,  and  I,  in  a  Machiavelian 
spirit,  led  the  conversation  up  to  his  most 
cherished  philosophical  hobbies.  I  never 
showed   greater  deference  for  the  great 


202      Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

man,  or  greater  admiration.  I  called  to 
my  aid  all  the  wit  I  could  command.  I 
was  eloquent ;  I  was  full  of  passion,  of 
fire.  The  delicious  fragrance  which  pur- 
sued me  even  into  the  library  inspired 
me.  My  success  was  moderate.  At 
times  Cousin,  carried  away  by  his  favo- 
rite topics,  seemed  to  forget  everything 
else.  But,  on  the  whole,  he  was  uneasy; 
he  moved  in  his  chair,  played  with  his 
paper  knife,  like  a  man  who  finds  that 
the  visit  he  is  forced  to  submit  to  is  very 
long  indeed.  Finally  he  rose,  and  I  was 
forced  to  rise  also  ;  he  opened  his  library 
door,  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
allow  myself  to  be  turned  out.  But  in 
the  antechamber  the  odor  was  so  strong 
that  it  gave  me  the  courage  of  despair, 
and  I  exclaimed :  '  Monsieur  Cousin,  I 
have  not  a  penny  left  and  I  am  hungry ! ' 
Cousin  hesitated;  no  man  was  more 
lavish  of  words,  none  less  so  of  every- 
thing   else.     But    even    his    heart    was 


French  Statesmen.  203 

touched.  Impulsively  he  took  my  arm, 
exclaiming :  ■  Allons  le  debrocher ! ' 
And  together  we  went  into  the  kitchen. 
There  I  saw  a  fine  chicken,  just  roasted 
to  a  rich  golden  hue,  and  spitted  —  on 
my  master's  Academic  sword.  You  see 
that  the  weapon  can  be  of  some  use, 
after  all ! " 


MEN    OF    LETTERS. 

\  liT HEN  I  was  in  London  as  a  very 
young  man,  in  1838,  the  great 
naturalist  Audubon  visited  the  British 
metropolis.  He  was  received  with  de- 
light by  all  the  American  colony,  and  I 
naturally  took  part  in  that  demonstration 
of  enthusiasm. 

Audubon  was  of  French  extraction, 
born  in  New  Orleans,  but  his  family  for 
two  generations  had  been  American  citi- 
zens. He  was  a  very  simple  man,  a  little 
rough  in  appearance,  with  long  shaggy 
black  hair,  and  the  most  piercing  eyes  I 
ever  saw.  —  real  eagle  eyes. 

I  called  upon  him  and  asked  him  to 
sit  to  me.  He  assured  me  that  though 
he    was    greatly  flattered,   he   could   not 


JOHN  JAMES  AUDUBON. 


Men  of  Letters.  205 

possibly  spare  the  time.  He  had  come 
to  London  to  brings  out  his  bis:  book  on 

o  o 

birds,  and  was  too  much  absorbed  by  this 
work  to  think  of  sitting.  Then,  as  he 
was  a  kindly  man,  he  added :  "  I  have 
but  my  evenings  to  offer  you." 

Doubtless  he  thought  to  escape  me  in 
that  way.  But  artists  are  persevering  ; 
I  am  peculiarly  so. 

-  "  The  very  thing,  my  dear  sir !     I  shall 
make  an  original  portrait  by  gas-light." 

The  great  man  was  caught,  and  very 
graciously  accepted  his  defeat. 

I  painted  him  in  the  costume  he  wore 
when  he  went  in  search  of  his  birds,  —  a 
sort  of  backwoodsman's  dress.  The  por- 
trait was  a  curiously  bright  one,  as  though 
it  had  been  painted  in  full  sunshine. 

In  the  course  of  conversation  Audubon 
discovered  that  I  was  in  love  with  a  young 
English  girl ;  he  became  at  once  very 
friendly  and  communicative,  assuring  me 
that  a  good  marriage  was  the  only  real 


206     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

happiness  one  could  hope  for  in  life. 
And  he  told  me  how  he  had  married  a 
governess,  as  poor  as  he  then  was  him- 
self, and  how  absolutely  happy  they  had 
both  been,  in  spite  of  all  the  material 
difficulties  they  had  encountered.  High 
culture  and  a  loving  heart  are  the  only 
treasures  that  are  not  subject  to  ruin. 
He  found  me  a  willing  listener,  and  easily 
convinced  of  the  truth  he  so  eloquently 
preached. 

This  portrait  is  now  the  property  of 
the  Boston  Society  of  Natural  History. 
I  took  it  to  America  with  me  some  years 
after  I  painted  it.  On  that  occasion  a 
young  brother  artist  residing  in  Paris 
asked  me  to  take  over  some  of  his  works 
and  to  dispose  of  them,  if  I  could.  These 
were  not  quite  according  to  the  taste  of 
our  puritanic  countrymen.  One,  in  parti- 
cular, represented  a  young  woman  at  her 
toilet,  who,  not  having  advanced  much 
in  the  process  of  clothing  herself,  wore 


Men  of  Letters.  207 

nothing  but  a  small  cap.  A  good  Bos- 
tonian,  to  whom  I  praised  this  little  pic- 
ture, said :  "  No  doubt  it  is  very  fine,  Mr. 
Healy ;  but  my  wife  would  not  allow  me 
to  hang  it  in  our  bedroom,  and  I  should 
not  dare  to  let  it  be  seen  in  my  parlor ! " 
I  finally  determined  to  dispose  of  the 
pictures  by  tickets,  and,  to  add  to  the 
interest  of  the  raffle,  I  put  in  with 
them  my  portrait  of  Audubon.  As  it 
happened,  one  of  my  own  tickets  won  it. 
I  then  wrote  to  Mr.  Bradlee,  of  Boston, 
who  had  proved  one  of  my  best  friends, 
telling  him  how  the  portrait  still  belonged 
to  me  and  begging  him  to  accept  it. 
Later,  with  my  ready  consent,  he  gave  it 
to  the  Boston  Society  of  Natural  History, 
where  I  believe  it  still  hangs. 

Early  in  the  century,  two  school-boys 
were  playing  together.  One  of  them,  in 
fun,  threw  a  crust  of  bread  at  his  com- 
panion, destroying  one  of  his  eyes.  The 
other  grew  to  be  very  weak  ;  and  the  boy, 


208     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

though  he  did  not  become  entirely  blind, 
and  was  able  to  the  last  to  direct  his 
steps,  was  still  cut  off  from  the  usual 
pleasures  of  an  active  life.  Fortunately 
he  was  able  to  devote  himself  to  study, 
and,  with  the  help  of  secretaries,  to  his- 
torical labors. 

That  boy  was  our  great  Prescott. 

In  1843  I  called  on  him  and  asked  him 
to  sit  to  me.  I  found  him  in  his  hand- 
some study,  where  subsequently  I  spent 
many  very  pleasant  hours,  in  the  com- 
pany of  all  the  cultivated  men  of  the  day. 
Prescott's  was  one  of  the  most  hospitable 
and  agreeable  houses  of  Boston. 

To  me,  our  celebrated  historian's  life 
is  a  proof  that  happiness  is  in  us,  and 
depends,  on  the  whole,  but  little  on  out- 
ward circumstances.  This  almost  blind 
man  was  serenely  content;  perhaps  one 
of  the  happiest  among  my  numerous 
sitters.  His  time  was  fully  occupied ;  his 
work  was  a  delight  to  him,  and  he  never 


Men  of  Letters.  209 

allowed  small  difficulties  to  stop  him  on 
his  way.  In  order  to  write  his  Spanish 
histories,  or  those  of  the  conquests,  he 
was  forced  to  become  familiar  with  the 
old  Spanish  works.  His  secretary,  with- 
out knowing  a  word  of  the  language, 
read  all  these  to  him  as  best  he  could, 
and  Prescott  managed  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  the  ill-pronounced  words. 

-It  must  be  added  that,  had  Prescott 
been  forced  to  fight  the  hard  battle  of 
life,  to  struggle  for  his  daily  bread,  the 
case  would  have  been  a  very  different 
one.  But  he  possessed  a  sufficient  for- 
tune ;  no  weary  material  cares  forced 
themselves  between  him  and  his  work. 
Reputation  came  rapidly;  he  was  hon- 
ored and  respected  by  all ;  he  had  many 
and  very  warm  friends. 

No  man  was  more  worthy  of  success 
than  he ;  no  one  enjoyed  that  success 
with  more  moderation  ;  no  one  perhaps 
ever  had  fewer  enemies  or  excited  less  111- 

14 


210      Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

feeling  and  envy.  It  seemed  almost  as 
though  his  infirmity  protected  him  even 
from  the  naturally  envious. 

President  Pierce,  somewhere  about 
1847,  requested  me  to  paint  a  portrait 
of  Hawthorne,  who  was  a  great  friend  of 
his.  As  I  had  vast  admiration  for  Haw- 
thorne's talent,  —  his  genius  one  might 
say,  —  no  commission  could  have  given 
me  more  pleasure. 

The  novelist  was  then  about  forty 
years  of  age,  a  most  striking-looking 
man,  a  little  after  the  fashion  of  Webster : 
heavy  black  eyebrows  overshadowed  the 
eyes ;  he  had  a  shock  of  black  hair  and 
a  heavy  moustache.  One  might  have 
fancied  this  strong,  characteristic  head 
betokened  a  resolute  and  bold  nature. 
Hawthorne  had  doubtless  great  energy, 
but  I  never  met  man  or  woman  so  pain- 
fully, so  irremediably,  timid.  This  exces- 
sive and  shrinking  sensitiveness  rendered 
the  first  sittings  very  trying,  not  only  to 


Men  of  Letters.  21 1 

the  model,  but  to  the  painter.  Each 
time  the  great  writer  caught  my  eye  — 
and  of  course  this  happened  constantly  — 
he  would  shrink,  grow  crimson,  and  look 
the  very  picture  of  misery. 

After  a  few  sittings,  however,  this  wore 
off,  and,  strange  to  say,  the  presence  of 
Mrs.  Healy,  instead  of  augmenting  his 
uneasiness,  seemed  rather  to  calm  it. 
He  seemed  pleased  with  her  apprecia- 
tion of  his  works ;  and  when  it  was  pro- 
posed that  she  should  read  aloud,  he 
willingly  agreed.  After  this,  the  sittings 
ceased  to  be  a  torture  to  both  of  us.  I 
remember  that  it  was  one  of  Bulwer's 
novels  to  which,  during  the  sittings,  he 
listened  with  evident  satisfaction. 

One  of  the  problems  my  wife  and  I 
puzzled  over  most,  was  how  so  timid  a 
man  ever  made  up  his  mind  to  propose 
to  any  young  lady  and  marry  her.  But 
he  had  then  been  married  for  some  years, 
and  a  red-headed  boy  of  his  —  who  since 


212      Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

has  made  a  name  for  himself  in  the 
world  of  letters  —  came  to  my  studio  to 
see  his  father's  portrait. 

When  the  first  shyness  had  worn  off, 
Hawthorne  told  us,  in  his  quaint  interest- 
ing way,  of   his   early  married  life.     He 
and    his  wife,  like  ourselves,  had   begun 
housekeeping  very  modestly — and  were 
none  the  less  happy  for  that !     The  great 
question  with  them  was  how  to  furnish 
their   small    house;  for   in    America    no 
one  could  have  begun  life  as  we  did,  with 
a  painting-room  and  a  bedroom  next  to 
it.     Mrs.  Hawthorne  was  not  only  active 
and  intelligent,  but  somewhat  of  an  artist 
besides.     She  caused  the  furniture  to  be 
made   of    common    white    wood,    of    the 
cheapest     kind;     and    soon    tables     and 
chairs,  sideboards  and  beds,  were  all  gay 
with    painted   flowers    and    leaves,    birds 
and  insects.     The  great  man,  not  with- 
out  pride,  said  that  when    their  friends 
came  to  see  them,  their  first  exclamation 


Men  of  Letters.  213 

was :  "  Where  did  you  get  that  pretty- 
furniture  ?" 

Perhaps  later,  when  success  had  fairly 
come,  and  with  it  the  possibility  of  hav- 
ing a  well-furnished  house,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hawthorne  more  than  once  thought  with 
regret  of  their  white  wood  tables  and 
chairs ! 

The  same  year  that  I  painted  Haw- 
thorne, Ticknor — or  "  Spanish  Literature" 
as  he  was  usually  called  —  sat  to  me  for 
my  big  picture  of  "  Webster  Replying  to 
Hayne,"  in  which  he  figures  prominently. 

The  Ticknors  lived  very  handsomely 
in  a  big  Boston  house,  and  the  library 
was  perhaps  the  largest  and  most  com- 
plete private  library  in  America.  This 
hospitable  house  was  open  to  all  culti- 
vated Americans,  and  a  centre  for  the 
distinguished  foreigners  who  visited  our 
country. 

When  Thackeray  came  to  America 
and   gave  his  successful  lectures   on  the 


214      Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

"Four  Georges"  he  was  Ticknor's  con- 
stant guest.  The  two  were  great  cronies, 
which  did  not  prevent  them  from  dis- 
agreeing on  many  a  point,  each  defending 
his  opinion  with  rare  energy.  Ticknor 
was  a  small,  combative,  eager  man. 
Thackeray  towered  above  him,  but  did 
not  always  come  off  victorious  in  the 
wordy  combats,  though  he  had  quick  wit 
with  tongue  as  well  as  pen,  and  generally 
managed  to  have  the  last  word  or  joke. 

On  one  occasion,  when  the  discussion 
had  been  particularly  lively,  —  it  was 
some  point  of  history  which  was  the 
bone  of  contention,  —  Thackeray,  sud- 
denly putting  a  hand  on  each  shoulder 
of  his  friend  and  looking  down  upon  him, 
exclaimed,  — 

"  It  would  never  do  for  two  such 
broken-nosed  old  coves  as  we  are  to  fall 
out  and  quarrel." 

A  general  laugh  ended  the  dispute. 
Thackeray,    when    a   boy,   had  his    nose 


Men  of  Letters.  2 1 5 

broken  by  accident;  whereas  Ticknor,  by 
a  freak  of  nature,  had  a  queer  little  pug 
nose  that  had  a  broken  look.  After 
that,  instead  of  "  Spanish  Literature  "  he 
was  usually  called  "  the  broken-nosed  old 
cove." 

Since  I  have  alluded  to  the  great  Eng- 
lish novelist,  I  must  speak  of  two  very 
characteristic  meetings  with  him,  though 
he  was  never  a  sitter  of  mine,  and  though 
certainly  I  could  scarcely  boast  of  hav- 
ing been  his  friend.  These  two  meet- 
ings revealed,  in  the  first  place,  his 
known  weakness  for  titles  and  high-born 
people ;  the  other  his  really  kind  nature, 
which  he  was  wont  to  hide  with  a  sort  of 
curious  false  shame. 

One  day,  in  Paris,  I  met  Thackeray  in 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  "  What !  you  here, 
Healy  ?  I  thought  you  were  in  Amer- 
ica !  "  I  replied  that  I  was  then  working 
close  at  hand,  in  number  15  of  the  street 
we  stood  in,  and  that  if  on  the  following 


2i6      Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

Thursday  he  had  a  moment  to  spare,  I 
should  be  glad  to  show  him  my  work. 
"Ah!  Thursday,  —  very  well."  At  the 
time  appointed  he  called  upon  me  and 
was,  for  him,   most  amiable. 

In  the  course  of  conversation,  he  said: 
"So  we  are  to  meet  this  evening;  "  and 
as  I  seemed  bewildered,  he  added  :  "  Why, 
yes  —  Thursday  evening  —  did  you  not 
say  that  we  were  to  meet  at  Lord 
Holland's?"  "No,"  answered  I,  "  I  am 
not  invited."  "  Ah !  really,  good  after- 
noon ! ':  And  almost  instantly  he  left  the 
place,  evidently  quite  disgusted  at  having 
lost  his  time  with  a  man  whom  Lord 
Holland  had  not  seen  fit  to  invite ! 

Some  years  later  I  called  on  him  in 
Boston,  and  he  received  me  with  a  sar- 
castic smile,  assuring  me  that  he  felt 
exceedingly  honored  that  I  should  con- 
descend to  think  of  a  poor  man  of  letters, 
like  himself.  I  answered  with  great 
seriousness  :  "  Mr.  Thackeray,  you  quite 


Men  of  Letters.  2 1 7 

mistake  the  motive  of  my  visit.  It  is  not 
the  man  of  letters  I  have  come  to  see, 
it  is  the  man  simply,  —  the  man  who 
cheered  the  last  days  of  a  poor  young 
fellow,  Cook."  Instantly  his  manner 
changed.  "  Ah  !  you  knew  Cook  ! '  And 
he  spoke  feelingly,  as  though  sarcasm  had 
not  become  with  him  almost  a  second 
nature. 

Cook,  a  young  American  painter  whom 
I  had  known  in  Paris,  very  poor  and 
friendless,  fell  ill,  and  having  no  other 
resources  was  compelled  to  go  to  the 
hospital.  There  I  found  him,  not  only 
very  ill,  but  in  terror  of  the  doctors,  who, 
according  to  him,  made  use  of  him  for 
all  sorts  of  surgical  experiments.  "  If 
you  can't  get  me  out  of  this  hell,  I  shall 
die  of  fright."  I  immediately  started  a 
subscription  among  the  artists,  who  are 
never  deaf  to  such  appeals,  with  the  re- 
sult that  Cook  was  taken  to  the  country. 
He  had  a  cheerful   room  in  a  farmhouse, 


218      Reviiniscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

and  a  garden  where  he  could  enjoy  every 
ray  of  sunshine.  A  kind  nurse  took  care 
of  him  ;  and  a  more  grateful,  happy  crea- 
ture I  never  saw.  He  died,  in  spite  of 
every  care  ;  but  at  least  his  end  was  not 
made  horrible  by  terror.  All  he  could 
say  was :  "  I  am  happy,  I  am  so  happy ! " 

His  most  constant  visitor  was  Thack- 
eray, who  watched  with  him  night  after 
night,  and  cared  for  this  young  stranger 
as  though  he  had  been  of  his  own  blood  ; 
and  I  am  very  sure  that  in  order  to 
give  the  dying  man  one  bright  hour,  the 
celebrated  author  would  have  refused 
even  a  duke's  invitation. 

My  acquaintance  with  our  great  poet 
Longfellow  began  many  years  ago,  and  I 
never  went  to  Cambridge  without  calling 
on  him  in  his  delightful  mansion,  so  full 
of  the  memories  of  our  great  war.  My 
first  portrait  of  Longfellow,  painted  when 
he  was  still  young,  belongs  to  his  pub- 
lishers, Messrs.  Ticknor  and  Fields.  In 
1870  I  again  painted  him. 


L  O  KG  FELL  O  IV  AND   DA  UGHTER. 


Men  of  Letters.  219 

I  was  then  settled  in  Rome,  and  Long- 
fellow, with  his  daughters,  spent  some 
months  in  the  Eternal  City.  He  was 
then  a  splendid-looking  man,  with  per- 
fectly white  hair  and  beard.  His  eyes 
were  bright  and  expressive.  I  painted  a 
group  of  himself  with  one  of  his  daugh- 
ters, a  very  young  girl  with  golden  hair; 
the  contrast  was  a  very  telling  one. 

In  my  studio  the  picture  he  looked  at 
most  often  was  a  large  portrait  of  Liszt 
seated  at  his  piano.  I  had  recently 
painted  it,  and  I  told  the  poet  how,  dur- 
ing the  sittings,  Liszt  had  played,  for 
hours  at  a  time.  I  showed  him  casts  I 
had  had  taken  of  the  musician's  hands ; 
and  these  greatly  interested  him,  for  they 
were  extraordinary,  —  thin,  nervous,  and 
well  shaped  ;  revealing  much  of  the  man's 
passionate,  unquiet,   earnest  nature. 

Liszt  in  those  days — L'abbe  Liszt,  as 
he  liked  to  be  called  :  he  had  taken  minor 
orders  —  had  his  lodging  in  an  old  con- 


220     Reminiscences  of  a  Portrait  Painter. 

vent  close  to  the  Forum.  Longfellow 
expressed  a  desire  to  see  the  great  musi- 
cian ;  and  as  I  had  remained  on  good 
terms  with  my  sitter,  I  asked  permission 
to   present  the  American  poet  to  him. 

One  day,  toward  sundown,  we  drove 
together  to  the  old  monastery,  and  rang 
at  Liszt's  private  entrance.  It  was  al- 
ready quite  dark  in  the  vestibule,  the 
door  of  which  was  opened  by  means  of 
an  interior  cord.  No  servant  was  visible. 
But  the  abbe  himself  came  forward  to 
greet  us,  holding  a  Roman  lamp  high  up, 
so  as  to  see  his  way.  The  characteristic 
head,  with  the  long  iron-gray  hair,  the 
sharp-cut  features  and  piercing  dark 
eyes,  the  tall,  lank  body  draped  in  the 
priestly  garb,  formed  so  striking  a  pic- 
ture that  Mr.  Longfellow  exclaimed  un- 
der his  breath :  "  Mr.  Healy,  you  must 
paint  that  for  me  !  " 

Our  visit  was  most  agreeable,  for,  when 
he  chose,  no  man   was  more  fascinating 


FRANZ  LISZT. 


Men  of  Letters.  221 

than  Liszt.  He  played  for  us  on  his 
fine  American  piano,  with  which  he  was 
delighted  ;  then  he  showed  us  over  his 
bachelor  establishment,  which  was  by  no 
means  the  cell  of  an  austere  monk ;  and 
evidently  wished  to  make  a  good  impres- 
sion on  his  illustrious  visitor. 

Taking  advantage  of  this  amiable  dis- 
position, I  told  him  how  much  we  had 
both  been  struck  by  his  appearance  as 
he  came  toward  us,  light  in  hand.  He 
willingly  consented  to  sit,  and  I  made  a 
small  picture,  as  exact  a  reproduction  as 
possible  of  what  we  had  seen,  and  which 
gave  great  pleasure  to  Longfellow. 


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